Tide And Moon
by once-was-serendipity
Summary: A somewhat different history...just how different, I don't know yet.
1. Prologue

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_Okay, a quick note :o)_  
_The following is a product of a splitting post-New Year headache combined with several aspirins and countless cups of coffee. It just sort of came to be, and therefore, I have no idea where it's headed, but I'm kind of curious to see where it might take me, because really, all I have in my head for now are random snapshots of some potentially interesting scenes. Anyway, consider yourselves warned, and if you're still willing, you're welcome to join the ride :o)_

_Oh, and yeah - Happy New Year!  
_

* * *

**Prologue**

Ultimately, Jess suspects it's the silence that will drive him insane.

At first, Luke's snoring drowned it out somewhat, but it's been a few days and now that he's gotten used to it, he doesn't really hear it anymore, and the silence is back in full force. This impossible, picture-perfect town just drops dead right after the evening news, and even the smallest sign of life disappears - there are no cars to be heard outside, no neighbors screaming at each other, no drunken voices hollering incoherently in the street, there's just the damn silence and he stares into it, eyes wide open, wondering if he'll ever learn to sleep surrounded by this irritating peace and quiet. Probably not, and he'd gladly give up a kidney to hear a distant wail of a police siren, or a taxi driver swearing in some obscure language.

He didn't think places like this existed, with their perfectly trimmed lawns and white picket fences, neat little parks and un-dented trashcans, colorful flowerbeds and freshly painted benches… He thought such places only appeared in dreams (_no, not dreams – nightmares_, he corrects himself quickly), or on vintage postcards… and occasionally, in some misdirected educational tv programs that have nothing to do with real life. And as if the fluffy setting itself isn't sickening enough, there is another nauseous dimension to it all – the people. In his entire life, he hasn't seen as many smiling faces as he has since he stepped off the bus in this Stepford incarnation. It's like the entire town had at some point suffered a collective stroke that has forever clenched everyone's face in the same annoying expression – the everlasting smile. It was everywhere, closely followed by suffocating kindness, and usually by late afternoon, the combination would freak him out to the point that he felt he would either jump out of his skin or simply floor the next person who uttered the phrase 'have a nice day.'

There are, however, exceptions; _no, there is one exception, singular_, he corrects himself again, and it is snoring a few feet away. It's not surprising, really; given all the smothering cordiality, there has to be someone channeling the communal ill-temper. However, this one concession aside, it is still hell – but apparently, for the time being, it is also home.

_Home, home, home_… the word drums in his head in a dull rhythm but holds no meaning. It's an alien concept, and has been ever since he became old enough to realize that it's not synonymous with a place to sleep or an address on a police record. There's more to it, but this is something he knows from books, not experience; it's just as well, he'd always thought, because when you don't belong anywhere, you can't really ever feel out of place wherever you might end up. This philosophy worked flawlessly until he found himself here - in the last week, he'd watched it crumble down in pieces as he realized he probably couldn't feel more alien in this fairy-tale town if he had tentacles sprouting from his forehead.

Half-expecting to find them there, he runs his hands over his hair and curses the silence again. Pulling a pillow over his head, he feels the darkness thicken as he does his best to evoke a mental image of New York at night, alive and loud and kicking and familiar… For a brief moment, it stays with him, but it vanishes much too quickly, and as it fades to black behind his eyelids, a restless impulse to move propels him to his feet and he escapes the bed and the apartment in a heartbeat, pulling on his pants on his way down the stairs.

Unsurprisingly, the streets are empty and quiet, and only a stray cat crosses his path as he makes his way to the park. His footsteps echo hollow and dull against the wood planks of the bridge, and he can feel it vibrate under his feet; the subtle shudder carries for a while even after he sits down and hangs his legs over the side. He lights a cigarette and stares at his reflection in the water, but finds nothing new in the face that looks back, so he stretches out on his back and looks at the sky instead, blowing lazy hoops of smoke towards the stars.

It's his seventh night here in the middle of nowhere, and as such, it's a decent occasion to look back and single out the first few memorable moments - and even though the word 'memorable' seems much too grandiose to apply here, nothing better comes to mind at the moment, so he just runs with it.

Being shoved into the lake somehow stands out the most, and an involuntary chuckle escapes him at the memory; at first, he tries to stifle it on reflex, telling himself he shouldn't be amused. He should be annoyed, irritated, pissed off – any or all of these would make more sense, but somehow all escape him, and he can't help finding the whole thing funny on some twisted level. Well, if nothing else, that particular communication method was something new; it definitely came as a surprise, to say the least, and he grudgingly admits to the stars that it was more effective than any speech or sermon Luke could have delivered instead. Finally, he laughs out loud, his only regret being that he didn't have enough presence of mind to pull Luke in as well.

Of course, the twilight-zone dinner party also warrants a thought, and he thinks it's safe to say he'd made quite an impression – on Lorelai, at least. She really just ran straight into it, into all the pent-up anger and frustration over being stuck in this impossible town with its sickeningly cheerful well-meaning residents. Why couldn't she just let him be, just take away the bloody beer and swallow the whole motivational speech? Of all the buttons to push, she just had to go for the_ you're-actually-so-lucky-to-be-here-you-just-don't-know-it _one, the one that instantly made him fly off the handle and bite her head off. Well, maybe he would have been just as derisive regardless of what she said – after all, she's a parent, and that particular breed never held a high standing in his book.

And then, there was the little bookworm… In a weird way, it bothers him that he'd saved her for last in this little tally, like something to be savored, like sugar-coating or a hidden bonus track on an otherwise lousy album. Admittedly, she did come as an unexpected (_pleasant?)_ surprise – he'd never come face to face with anyone who owned a Ginsberg copy that looked even more battered than his own. Or anyone who even owned a copy, period. Or anyone who would reference _Oliver Twist_ outside of a classroom…and coming across the first such person here and now, well, it's just plain ridiculous. That book on her shelf, and all the others around it, they somehow made her inherent small-town sweetness… bearable. This didn't, however, change the fact that she is a good little girl – she is, and it's painfully obvious, but there is a mind behind the facade that might be interesting to poke around. _And the facade is cute_, an uncalled inner voice points out casually, and he smiles at the stars briefly before he dismisses it; good little girls are really not his thing. _But corrupting one of them might be_, the voice returns, and this time, the smile is more of a smirk and somehow, it lingers.

He stretches and sits back up, then sends the cigarette flying into the water; he stands up slowly and lazily walks back in the general direction of the diner and the silence that awaits between the new sheets. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he finds a piece a chalk there and frowns; for a moment he wonders where it came from but quickly remembers writing out the new breakfast special on the diner board and immediately looks forward to the inevitable fit Luke will throw when the first unsuspecting person actually tries to order quiche Lorraine for breakfast.

Just as he gets ready to ditch the chalk, a better use for it springs to mind; he smirks and chooses a new destination, wondering if the little bookworm has a sense of humor to match her taste in literature.

…..

About half-way into Taylor's rant, Rory feels her lips begin to twitch into an involuntary little smile; catching herself just in time, she manages to stifle the giggle in the making as she looks over the police tape and the chalk outline of a decidedly cartoonish nature on the sidewalk, and makes a quick mental note to laugh about it all with Lorelai later. She glances around inquisitively in search of Luke, feeling sorry he's missing such a classic Taylor freak-out that he would definitely enjoy; unfortunately, he's not around, but her eyes soon come across a different collection of the Danes genes that seem to share the sentiment, leaning against a lamp-post across the street. She notes the impossible smirk and smug expression, but her gaze quickly locks on the eyes - there's something perturbing and cryptic there, an unspoken challenge, and the impulse to laugh is gone in an instant.

_...who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts..._ She has no idea why it happens, but whenever she sees him, her mind quotes random _Howl_ passages ever since he handed the book back to her; _no, ever since she reread it, margin notes included_, she corrects herself carefully. It's an annoying little quirk, and one she can't make heads or tails of, although this is probably because she deliberately chose to dismiss it on all prior occasions, somehow unwilling to search for reasons behind the phenomenon, surreptitiously hoping it will eventually go away. So far, no such luck, and it slowly becomes apparent that some introspection might be necessary – _but not now, it's not the time or the place_, she reminds herself sternly, squirming slightly under the unwavering stare across the street.

_It's the whole rebellious misfit thing, _her mind offers in an instant, and she groans inwardly – it figures, the moment you tell yourself not to think about flying pink elephants, flying pink elephants are suddenly all you can think about. But the idea has merits, she concedes, it might be the rebellious misfit thing, although the reason why it pokes at her on such unexpected levels still wavers slightly beyond comprehension. _Ah, well, because in this case, it's real,_ her mind flashes... it's not a matter or pose or presentation adopted out of trend or ulterior motives, it's a genuine fact like his height or hair color. It's just who he really is, and suddenly all the random _Howl_ references make sense when she realizes that many (_hopefully, not all!_) thoughts and feelings and experiences laid out in the poem might be standing materialized a few feet away. _Okay, yeah, that would explain some of this ridiculous fascination, _she admits weakly, carefully sidestepping the implication the term 'some' raises and leaving it for some future soul-searching session.

As it all sinks in, she half-expects some undetermined feeling of closure to settle in, the sort that follows after solving a somewhat challenging puzzle or completing a crossword, but it doesn't quite happen; in some weird way, this new-found truth provides more questions than it does answers. She huffs at this new development exasperatedly and sternly directs her mind to several different truths that are much less fascinating but still very true - he's arrogant, inconsiderate and annoying, he was a royal jackass to her mother and seems hell-bent on driving Luke insane.

Somewhat surprisingly, she finds the last item on the list to be the best source of righteous anger and the most effective safeguard against the dark gaze that's making her squirm, and just as she gets ready to launch this new-found defiance in a withering stare across the street, something in his eyes changes – the challenge disappears and there's a flash of subdued satisfaction that catches her completely off guard. Before she has time to give this new development a second thought, the smirk widens; another cryptic glance and he's walking away. She blinks, confused, and looks at the chalk outline on the pavement again, unable to shake a weird feeling that she's just taken some elusive test, the results of which she may never know.

_

* * *

A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	2. Of Bubbles, Eggs and Arrogance

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**01. Of Bubbles, Eggs and Arrogance**

"Luke is so way in over his head with this kid," Lorelai shakes her head, squinting toward the diner as she chews on her Slurpee straw. Rory lets her gaze follow in the same general direction, and gradually discerns what seems to be a heated discussion in progress behind the diner windows, if flailing arms are any indication.

"If it was me, I would have sent the little monster packing by now," Lorelai continues absentmindedly.

"No, you wouldn't," Rory says calmly. "And neither will Luke."

"As endearing as your confidence in me is, it's also very misplaced in this particular case," Lorelai declares with conviction. "On several levels, Jess makes Damien look like a slightly troubled toddler."

Rory rolls her eyes, chuckling. "Okay, I appreciate the dramatic flair and everything, but aren't you overdoing it a little?"

"Nope," Lorelai says and sucks on her Slurpee with determination, grimacing as she swallows. "You know, this might not be the best choice of beverage for seven in the morning."

Rory stops walking and frowns at her, disregarding the Slurpee comment. "Seriously? Comparing Jess to Damien, evil personified and so on?" She shakes her head, laughing. "It's too much, find a better reference."

"No, Damien works great for me," Lorelai reaffirms, and blows into her straw; nothing happens and she peers into her cup curiously. "No bubbles. How weird is that?"

"Fascinating… you might be on the verge of physics break-through," Rory sighs, attempting to brush the Slurpee phenomenon aside. "Don't you think it might be a little too early to label Jess…well, the Antichrist, apparently?"

Giving up on the bubbles for the moment, Lorelai gives her an inquisitive look. "Don't _you_ think it's a little early to rush to his defense, banners waving and guns blazing?"

"And there's the drama bit again," Rory rolls her eyes. "I'm not defending him, and I'm definitely not… waving or blazing anything."

"Well, you seem very certain I'm wrong," Lorelai points out, then frowns at her. "Where's all this coming from, anyway?"

"I'm not certain you're wrong, I'm just allowing for the possibility you might be," Rory shrugs. "I mean, you don't even know him."

"Oh, but I had an introduction memorable enough to learn everything I needed to know, and then some," Lorelai says firmly. "And by Stars Hollow standards, he may as well be the Antichrist."

"He reads," Rory offers weakly.

Lorelai shrugs. "So did Hitler."

"I give up," Rory says, rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up in defeat. Lorelai smiles and blows into her straw again. "Still no bubbles," she repeats, then peers toward Rory's cup. "Can you get bubbles?"

Wrenching her eyes away from the diner, Rory obediently blows into her straw. "No, no bubbles," she determines absentmindedly.

Lorelai shakes her head. "Okay, I'm officially mystified by this."

Rory shrugs and looks at the diner again.

….

"Quiche Lorraine? You have got to be kidding me," Luke runs his hands over his eyes. "Get that off of there and put up something we actually serve."

"Actually, it's pronounced Lorrraine, with a French 'r'," Jess points out innocently, looking up from his book.

"Oh sure, because it's the correct pronunciation of the stupid thing that I'm having a problem with," Luke deadpans.

"I'd say there are quite a few things you seem to be having a problem with," Jess smirks, spinning away on his stool in search of his coffee cup.

"Yeah, and most of them seem to involve you," Luke declares exasperatedly. "Care to explain that?"

Jess shrugs. "I really don't know what to tell you," he says indifferently and goes back to his book.

"Why am I not surprised," Luke mutters to himself, wiping the counter with a vengeance.

Jess closes the book with a thud. "Look, there's a really easy fix for this whole unfortunate situation," he points out evenly.

Luke shakes his head. "There's no such thing as an easy fix," he declares, then squints at Jess, propping himself against the counter. "And I'm not sending you back to New York. But by all means, keep on trying, I can't wait to see what you'll come up with next."

"Then I guess we're stuck with each other, lovable idiosyncrasies included," Jess shrugs, and turns the page.

"Just stay away from the specials board," Luke warns, pointing the counter wipe at him.

"That might be a problem," Jess says to the book.

Luke rolls his eyes. "And why, exactly, might that be a problem?"

"Because not two minutes ago you told me to get rid of the quiche and put up scrambled eggs instead," Jess reminds him in a bored tone. "And since I haven't quite mastered telekinesis yet, I can't both stay away from the damned board, _and _change what's written on it. You know," he closes the book again, "I hear consistency is a big thing when dealing with teenagers, and this going back and forth of yours really can't be good for me."

"Yeah, I'm sure I've scarred you for life, sorry about that," Luke returns, non-plussed. "And just to clarify – get rid of the quiche, put up the eggs, and when you're done, stay away from the damned board. Consistently."

"Okie dokie," Jess nods to the book.

"Oh yeah, and as long as we're having this little heart-to-heart," Luke continues," I'd appreciate it if you consistently stayed out of donation boxes, wallets and purses that don't belong to you, and refrained from trespassing and removing various garden decorations, as ridiculous as they may be, from their respective yards."

"Haven't we done this already?" Jess sighs and turns the page. "I'm getting a distinct sense of déjà vu."

"Well, repetition is the key to learning, or something to that effect," Luke shrugs and plants himself in the stool next to Jess, snatching the book away. "But I do have a new gem to add – next time you feel inclined to express your artistic tendencies and use public property as a canvas, I suggest you curb the impulse and find a different outlet for any misdirected frustration, because if you don't, I promise you, you will have the satisfaction of personally undoing whatever masterpiece you chose to create, with the added benefit of me breathing down your neck every step of the way. Consistently," he adds as an afterthought and throws the book on the counter.

"Are you about done? As riveting as this was, I've got school," Jess says indifferently, grabbing his book and heading for the door. Luke follows and holds on to the door, preventing what he's certain would otherwise be a monumental slam.

"Hurry back, I'm missing you already," he calls after Jess, and flips the Closed sign over, feeling a headache coming on.

…

"So, that was sweet," Rory says with a smile as she walks over and leans against the counter.

Jess's eyebrows lift quizzically. "Sweet…let's see - hot chocolate? Puppies? A Disney film?"

She rolls her eyes and points behind him. "The toaster thing, and the fixing there-of. Sweet." The eyebrows lift higher; she shakes her head and sets a bill on the counter. "Forget it. Can you break a twenty?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." The tone is non-committal with a blank look to match.

"See, I went to get the newspaper and Bootsy just laughed in my face when I pulled a twenty out of my pocket," she explains slowly, enunciating clearly. "So, I need change, and hence -" she waves the bill in front of his face "– can you break a twenty? The way it works is I give you my twenty, and you return two tens, or four fives, or twenty ones, or – "

"Hilarious... all the same, don't give up your day job," he cuts her off, smirking, and pulls the bill out of her hands.

"Why is it so hard for you to take credit for doing something nice for a change?" she asks with mild curiosity, motioning to the toaster again.

He closes the till and hands her the change, then leans back against the wall, crossing his hands on his chest. "As opposed to what?"

"Oh, I don't know," she shrugs, "outlining non-existent corpses on the sidewalk?"

He smirks. "I don't remember taking credit for that either."

"Okay, fine – how about making it to the number one spot on my mother's cream pie hit-list within twenty minutes of walking into our house?" She frowns, contemplating. "That's really not that easy to do, actually."

"In that case, I'm proud of that one," he chuckles.

She shakes her head. "You're impossible to talk to, you know that?"

The smirks widens and he makes a show of flinching. "Are you about to start yelling again?"

She squints at him. "No, and I never yelled at you."

"Really? Huh… " She looks at him blankly and he shrugs. "A few days ago, outside Doose's, the whole Luke-related ear-full? I thought you were going to bite my head of. Ring a bell?"

"_That _wasn't yelling," she points out indignantly and puts her change away.

"Well, you certainly fooled me," he smirks again. "Come to think of it, that's not that easy to do either."

"Trust me, that wasn't yelling," she reaffirms. "When and if I do yell at you, you'll know."

"Okay, so there's something to look forward to," he quips lazily; for a brief moment she contemplates strangling him, but then he smiles and the impulse evaporates. _Why_ _does that always happen?_

"So, is it some sort of New York thing?" she asks casually, still wondering what it is about that smile.

He frowns. "New York thing?"

"Yeah, this charming condescending arrogance thing you have going," she elaborates ironically. "I'm just wondering whether it's congenital to all New Yorkers or just something you picked up along the way."

"They make you take a course," he says seriously.

"Huh, you must have been a real prodigy," she mutters to herself.

The comment brings another half-smile; he props his elbows on the counter, leaning closer, and she fights an impulse to flinch and pull away as he tilts his head and looks up at her. "So, you think I'm charming?"

There's a challenge in the smirk and she panics briefly as she feels a blush coming on. _I didn't say that, did I?_ "That's not what I said," she snaps a little too quickly as she attempts to will the heat away from her face.

"Huh, and yet I could swear I heard you use the word," he frowns in mock concentration.

"Huh, and I figured you'd be one to recognize sarcasm," she offers sweetly. "My mistake, I'll make sure to enunciate in the future."

He smirks. "Hey, practice makes perfect. I can help if you want," he chuckles, "being a prodigy and all…"

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," she nods, "in case I ever need pointers on how to alienate people."

"Fair enough," he shrugs his shoulders, and squints up at her. "So, then you think I'm arrogant?"

The smile is back and the challenge is replaced by a dare, and Rory quickly finds herself wondering how this conversation took such a weird turn, where it might be heading and how to steer it into safer, more familiar territory. Books, maybe? They could probably trade recommendations for hours. _Why aren't we talking about books,_ she wonders absentmindedly…

"…condescending?" she hears him offer casually and quickly redirects her mind to reality.

"Patronizing, contemptuous, insolent…" he keeps going and the smirk grows wider, reversely proportional to the narrowing of her eyes.

"Are we having a vocabulary contest now?" she asks, aiming for irony again.

"No, what we're having is me asking a question and you skirting around the answer," he says with a smile.

"I'm not skirting," she says defensively, and immediately resents the uncertainty that lurks in her voice.

"You're not answering either," he points out innocently.

She frowns. "Do you always get what you want?"

He bursts out laughing. "God, no," he shakes his head and waves his hand around. "The fact I'm here bears screaming witness to that."

She rolls her eyes. "You make it sound like a circle of hell or something."

He smirks. "Which circle?"

"Take your pick," she shrugs. "I don't know you that well."

"Was there one for arrogance? I forget," he frowns in concentration, moving to the sink; glasses have piled up and he's not in the mood to get chewed out by Luke again.

_Well, there should be_, she thinks exasperatedly, and wonders why she's still standing here. For reasons she can't begin to comprehend, he bugs her. The absurd smirk, the cocky expression, the lazy drawl, the unconcerned demeanor – the whole package bugs her, but what bugs her most of all is the fact that it's altogether impossible to ignore. And that's not even the worst part – apparently, he gets some bizarre satisfaction out of watching her fume and the worst part is actually that she just lets him have it every time.

"You're staring," he points out casually, rinsing out a glass.

She flinches, but holds her own. "Well apparently, so are you," she says defiantly.

His eyebrows lift. "Apparently?"

She shrugs. "You wouldn't have known I was staring if you weren't staring back."

"Oh, but I would," he smirks. "It's a New York thing," he adds pragmatically.

"That place is quickly beginning to lose its appeal," she declares with a sigh.

"Pity," he chuckles, "I'm pretty sure you'd fit right in."

She gawks at him for a moment, then shakes her head. "Okay, what am I missing here?"

He frowns. "Missing?"

"That last bit actually sounded like you said something …borderline nice," she looks at him suspiciously, "so obviously, there must be a catch somewhere."

"No catch," he shrugs. "It was just an observation."

"Okay, so just to clarify," she frowns, "you think I'd fit in, living in New York?"

He smirks. "That's what I said," he confirms and dries his hands, leaning against the wall again.

"Huh," she mutters to the counter, unsure what to make of this unexpected development… _was it actually a compliment? _She looks up at him again. "Why?"

He smiles, but takes his time before he answers; for a while he just watches her with that impenetrable look in his eyes, and she can't help feeling like layer after layer of her is being peeled off under it. It's not quite like being naked physically, it somehow goes beyond that – it's like he can see things within her now that would normally take someone else months of close contact to recognize. She's not sure she likes this gaze, and she's certain her heart shouldn't be racing the way it is under it, and suddenly, she doesn't want to be here anymore.

"You know what? Never mind," she says quickly. "I have to go."

The smile grows and he crosses his hands on his chest. "You're bigger than this town," he says simply, and shrugs. "That's why."

She stops her retreat and frowns. "Are you now implying I'm fat or something?"

He chuckles. "Do you always have such a hard time accepting things at face value?"

She looks at him suspiciously. "When they're coming out of your mouth, sure."

"I thought you didn't know me that well," he reminds her.

"I learn quickly," she says with a smile, heading for the door.

She's leaving, and the fact that he doesn't like seeing her go catches him completely by surprise. "I'm still waiting for an answer on that arrogance thing," he calls after her.

She turns around again, and crosses her hands on her chest. "It may be a while," she smiles. "And I hear patience is a virtue."

"That's not at all small-town-friendly like, to leave me hanging like that," he warns, eyebrows rising.

"It's a New York thing," she says seriously.

He smirks, shaking his head. "You do learn quickly."

"And you _are_ arrogant," she declares, pulling the door open. "But in a weird way, it suits you," she adds honestly and lets the door close after her.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	3. Of Shoveling, Uncles and Happiness

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**02. Of Shoveling, Uncles and Happiness**

Jess hurtles down the stairs in a rush with a vague plan to slip out the back door while Luke is busy wrestling the morning onslaught of caffeine addicts, but just as he makes it to the point where the gateway to freedom is within visual range, his elbow catches a precariously placed box on a shelf. The box promptly topples over, and the ensuing racket is nearly loud enough to wake up the dead, and therefore definitely loud enough to alert Luke who, unfortunately, has become somewhat of an expert in thwarting these early morning vanishing maneuvers. Cursing silently, Jess pushes the box away and aims for freedom again, but as expected, he hears the door behind him creek open, closely followed by the familiar throat-clearing sound.

"This is getting old," Luke calls from the doorway.

"I've got school," Jess says quickly, glancing at the exit again.

Luke walks over and returns the box to the shelf. "It's Saturday, Einstein."

"Okay, so it's an extracurricular," Jess shrugs.

Luke chuckles. "I'll tell you what – if you can name three extracurricular activities that exist in that school, you never have to work in the diner again. Hell, I'm feeling generous today, so, you know, just name _one_ and you're off diner duty forever," he says casually. "Oh, and just for the record – detention? Not an extracurricular activity," he adds as an afterthought and folds his arms, waiting.

Jess throws him a dirty look, and Luke lifts his eyebrows. "Nothing? What a shock," he declares with another chuckle.

"Okay fine, you win, I'll serve the bloody coffee, but I should tell you I'm feeling somewhat clumsy this morning. I hope you're well stocked on cups and such," Jess warns irritably.

Luke frowns. "You know, I'm kind of getting this vibe that you don't really like working in the diner all that much," he says bemusedly.

"Whatever gave you that idea? Pouring coffee, wiping tables, and enduring mindless chit-chat from an endless procession of potential mental patients? It's the highlight of my day," Jess clips ironically.

"Yeah well, maybe you could use a break," Luke sighs, "some fresh air and so on…"

Jess squints at him, suddenly feeling like he's navigating a mine field. "Fresh air sounds good," he cautiously affirms, waiting for the impending explosion.

"Yeah, I think so too," Luke agrees, scratching his head. "Fresh air, maybe some exercise…" He reaches behind a shelf and in the next second, Jess finds himself presented with a shovel.

"What's this?" he asks suspiciously.

"Exercise," Luke shrugs.

"What, that latent paranoia involving pesticides finally kicked in and you're starting your own vegetable patch?" Jess chuckles. "As much as I'd love to witness this farmer transformation you're embarking on, I think I'll do it from a distance, because sadly, I just don't do well with dirt," he adds and pushes the shovel back at Luke.

Luke grins, then shakes his head. "Do you ever bother to look out the window?"

"Why? The view never changes," Jess points out indifferently.

Luke grins wider, then pulls the door open, and Jess finds himself faced with an endless, knee-high mass of snow.

"What the hell is this, Northern Exposure?" he gawks at the scene incredulously.

"Pretty much," Luke nods, "minus the moose. But watch out for the occasional squirrel, they can be vicious," he adds with amusement and pushes the shovel back at Jess.

"You can't be serious," Jess says, looking at the shovel, then the snow, then back at Luke.

Luke looks around, inhaling deeply. "There's really nothing quite like some fresh air," he informs Jess, throwing in a shoulder pat for good measure. "When you're done here, move to the front and you know, spruce that up a bit too. I cleared it once already, but I did a somewhat sloppy job, you know, having to deal with breakfast and everything."

"This borders on abuse," Jess grits through his teeth, fuming silently.

"Yeah well, I'm sure there's a hot-line you can call when you're done," Luke says cheerfully, retreating into the diner.

Jess curses the shovel, then the snow, then winter in general, then Stars Hollow winter in particular, but most of all, Luke and his bat-like hearing. Pushing the shovel into the snow, he digs through his pockets and finds his cigarettes; he lights one, then leans against the shovel and contemplates his options. There aren't that many, and upon closer inspection, subtle variations included, they basically boil down to two – shoveling and not shoveling. Shoveling is definitely not his first choice, but not shoveling would mean making himself scarce for the day and enduring endless nagging sessions from Luke upon returning. It's not really an appealing prospect since Luke really has no problem with nagging, he can keep at it for ridiculously long periods of time, and on many levels, enduring that would be much worse than waving a shovel for a few hours. Resigning himself to his unfortunate fate, he gets rid of the cigarette and digs through his jacket again in search of his earphones; sticking them into his ears, he grabs the shovel and attacks the snow with a vengeance.

Once he gets started, however, he gets the hang of it quickly; the music provides the rhythm and the righteous anger provides the drive, and he soon admits to himself that brandishing a shovel is really not a half-bad way to vent. On some level, he actually suspects Luke knew this, that he sent him out here with that very purpose, and for the first time, he grudgingly allows that maybe there's more to the guy that meets the eye. Granted, he's irritable and overbearing, meddlesome and much too controlling for Jess's taste, but there's a consistency about him that's strangely… well, reassuring, really. If nothing else, Jess has learned that he can count on the guy to nag him senseless when he screws up, and as irksome and annoying as the ritual is, it's also the most genuine show of concern he's ever witnessed. Not that this concern really matters one way or the other, he shrugs inwardly, but the phenomenon is new and as such, mildly interesting.

Not two hours since he first faced the polar conditions, he's ready to move on to the sidewalk in front of the diner, and he does it with a weird sense of pride, the existence of which he'd rather choke on a dozen times over than admit to another living being. The shoveling process is somewhat slower here because the spot is an excellent town vantage point and he occasionally gets distracted by the freak parade that is the Stars Hollow residents - even though he's been here a while now and has somewhat grown accustomed to the local weirdos, some characters still provoke a chuckle and an incredulous head-shake.

Looking up between two swings, he spots Rory across the square, bag-boy in tow, and as usual, he wonders what she sees in that guy, thinking he'd give anything to witness an conversation between the two. He can't begin to imagine what they talk about, and he'd gladly trade a week of his life to see Dean suffer through a _Howl_ discussion. _Maybe it's a chemistry thing_, a voice sounds in his head, but he dismisses this with a chuckle – the displays of affection between these two basically boil down to holding hands and an occasional kiss, none of which even remotely resemble passion in any shape or form.

They reach Doose's and before Dean disappears behind the door, Jess watches them exchange one of those proper kisses; it's so polite and appropriate it's borderline tragic. _This relationship, whatever it may have been once, is now just a force of habit_, he thinks with amusement as he watches Rory start across the square, making her way through the snow. He pushes the shovel into a snow pile at his feet and starts after her. She's wading through the yet uncleared snow in the middle of the square; he comes up a along her side, but sticks to the sidewalk a few feet away.

"Hey," he says with a smirk.

"Oh hi," she smiles, turning to look at him.

"Any particular reason you're choosing to plow through this natural disaster while there's a perfectly clear stretch of sidewalk available?" he asks with a smirk.

"It's the first snow this year," she smiles wider. "And it's not a natural disaster, it's a natural wonder."

"Okay, my question still stands," he says after a moment of contemplation.

"Snow makes me happy," she beams at him.

"Yeah, I can see that," he smirks with amusement.

She smiles with delight. "Everything is white and clean and fresh and weirdly quiet…"

"...with occasional electricity short-outs, traffic jams and ice-induced fractures," he continues helpfully, smirking at the dirty look she throws him.

"I take it you're not impressed," she says playfully. "Shocking."

"Well, if you spent the morning shoveling this… natural wonder, your perspective might be slightly different," he points out, cringing.

She stops and glares at him. "You shoveled?"

"I shoveled," he confirms with a smirk.

"That's so unfair," she mumbles, frowning toward the diner.

Not quite expecting such a blatant display of sympathy, he's caught off guard for a moment, but he recovers quickly. "Yeah well, tell it to Luke," he chuckles.

"Oh, I will," she assures him. "I can't believe he did that to me," she mutters to herself. "He knows he's supposed to save the shoveling for me," she says with disappointment.

For a moment, Jess just gawks at her incredulously, hastily employing every available brain cell to in an effort to make sense of what she just said, but to no avail; finally, he gives up and shakes his head.

"Okay, did you really just imply you actually _wanted _to shovel snow?" he asks, frowning at her.

"Amazing, you just show up out of nowhere, and he just lets you have all the fun," she continues, completely disregarding him.

He shakes his head again, thoroughly lost. "I'm… sorry, I guess," he says after a minute, wondering if he's really just apologized for shovelingsnow… it's beyond insane.

"Yeah, well… it's Luke's fault, not yours," she shrugs and starts walking again.

"Right…" he says slowly and follows. "What's with the competition, anyway? Don't you have a driveway at your house? Plenty of snow to clear over there," he offers with a smirk.

"Yeah, right," Rory laughs. "That's my mom's turf, I know better than to get caught with a shovel there…"

He looks at her again, and bursts out laughing. "I swear, I'll never get this town," he declares with resigned certainty.

"Probably not," she agrees with a smile. "I've lived here all my life, and the best advice I can give you is, the sooner you stop trying, the better off you'll be."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," he smirks.

They've reached the end of the square; he expects she'll be on her way home now, and it catches him by surprise when she just turns around and starts back the way she came, kicking the snow with her feet. Just as he's about to open his mouth to ask for an explanation, he suddenly realizes she's not really on her way anywhere, she's perfectly happy to just be wading through the snow. In accordance with her earlier advice, he decides to just take this in stride and not waste any time making sense of it.

"So, the snow makes you happy," he smirks, turning around as well. "What else?"

She shrugs. "A good book. Music, occasionally. Old movies. Traveling, although that's mostly an assumption at this point," she says sadly.

"Dean?" he offers casually.

"Dean," she nods quickly, throwing him a curious sideways glance.

"I kind of thought he'd be at the top of the list," Jess comments innocently.

"I wasn't prioritizing," she points out, rolling her eyes. "Or he would have been."

"Right, sure," he smirks; she frowns at him and he decides not to push it. "You forgot pancakes," he reminds her. "They must make you ecstatic if the sheer amount you can consume is any indication."

She laughs. "Okay, yeah, pancakes too…" She looks at him curiously. "What makes you happy? Everyday mundane things like driving any adult within reach insane not-withstanding," she adds hastily.

He laughs, then shrugs his shoulders. "That's about it, I guess."

"Wow," she says quietly, kicking some more snow around. "That's… sad," she continues absentmindedly, and he feels curiously scathed by the remark; regular defensive mechanisms rear their heads quickly and several sarcastic comebacks run through his head in quick succession, but somehow none quite make it out of his mouth when she stops and smiles at him. "How about you try this for a change?" she suggests, pointing to the snow at her feet.

He looks at her for a moment, standing there in the snow, hidden under a jacket, wrapped in a scarf and armed with mittens and ridiculous fluffy earmuffs, and somehow, there's something so overwhelmingly beautiful about the scene that he just can't bring himself to even remotely mock the suggestion. As far as he can remember, that's a first, and he racks his brain in search of an alternative response.

"Seems much too tame," he finally smirks. "Not really my thing."

"You can't know that unless you try," she points out reasonably, a subtle challenge dancing in her eyes. "I promise I won't tell anyone," she adds in a dramatic whisper.

He shakes his head and pushes his hands into his pockets.

"Oh come on, just get over yourself and get over here," she rolls her eyes. "You shoveled my snow, this is your chance to ingratiate yourself, so, you know, just take it," she chuckles.

"I can put it back if you want," he offers with a smirk.

"Right now, I want you to get over here," she returns playfully.

"Wow, you're stubborn," he chuckles.

"Well, it takes one to know one," she shrugs. "Now walk."

"I'd love to see how long this can go on," he wonders, amused.

"Well, I have dinner plans so I'll have to take a rain-check on that," she smiles. "For now, how about you just go out on a limb and try something completely crazy and out of character, and do this simply because I'm asking you to?"

Their eyes lock together, challenge versus determination, and curiously, Jess finds his determination fading. "Okay," he shrugs, and wades over to her.

"Wow, that was almost too easy," she chuckles and starts walking again.

He smirks and shakes his head. "You have no idea."

"Well?" she says after a few steps.

"Still not really my thing, sorry," he shrugs.

"Figures, I guess," she chuckles, "since kicking snow is unlikely to irritate anyone."

"Well, indirectly, it might irritate Luke, so I guess that's something," he smirks.

Rory laughs. "I don't really think Luke will have any strong opinions about you walking around the square."

"Normally, I'd agree, but considering the fact that I'm supposed to be clearing the sidewalk in front of the diner at the moment, he might have a thing or two to say," Jess points out hopefully.

She's not smiling anymore, and she says nothing; she just glances at him thoughtfully, and he doesn't like the look in her eyes.

"What?" he says with a smirk.

"Nothing," she says quickly and looks at her feet.

"It's painfully obvious you're choking on something," he chuckles.

"I'm not," she counters, frowning at the snow.

"You're the worst liar I've ever seen ," he points out casually, "so just spill."

She shrugs. "He's just really great," she says simply. "Luke."

Jess says nothing; he just quickly registers the second historic moment in which he held back a sarcastic remark, and suspects something might be seriously wrong with him.

"I mean, you've been here a while now, and being fairly intelligent and all, I would have expected you to pick up on that by now," she continues evenly.

"Fairly intelligent?" he repeats with a smirk. "What is that, a notch above stupid?"

She swallows a chuckle and shakes her head. "I'm not getting into a terminology discussion," she warns sternly, "or falling for this pathetic attempt to change the subject."

"Well, at least I tried," he shrugs, grinning.

She stops and frowns at him. "Why do you hate him so much, anyway?"

"What? I don't hate him," he counters quickly.

She folds her hands on her chest. "Then you like him?"

He rolls his eyes. "That's overstating it a little," he warns.

Her eyes narrow. "What then?"

He shrugs. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"And that's not ambiguous at all, thanks," she quips ironically.

He laughs, then turns around and starts back toward the diner. "See you around, Rory," he says over his shoulder, still chuckling.

"What would it take to get a straight answer out of you?" she yells after him, frowning.

He turns around. "I gave you one," he smirks. "You're just not listening."

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	4. Of Nightmares?, Lies and Creepers

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**03. Of Nightmares(?), Lies and Creepers**

The smirk is crooked and restrained somehow, but the kiss holds back nothing and her eyes flutter closed in the face of endless sensations it brings to life. At first it's just a soft, lazy caress that melts against her lips, but her heart jumps into her throat nonetheless and tingles spread all over in vicious little waves. A moment later, hands come into play, and the gentle tasting quickly slips into a determined clash of emotions, raw and unrestrained, emotions that she doesn't understand the origins of, but is completely incapable and unwilling to hold back just the same. Somewhere far, far back in her mind floats a vague warning that what she's doing is very, very wrong on every conceivable level, but this exquisite mix of feelings and sensations is just too delicious to forego; she dismisses the warning in a rush and grips tighter as heats builds and breaths get shorter with every heartbeat.

Rory's eyes snap open and she sits up in her bed with a jolt so violent that it brings about an instant headache. She checks the time (3.19am!) and plops back into the pillows, short of breath and agitated. _What is it with these dreams,_ she wonders in frustration, wiping the dampness from her forehead; _what is it with these disturbing, recurring, out-of-place dreams?_

Catching her breath, she stares at the ceiling and waits for her heart to stop racing and for goose-bumps to mercifully retreat from her skin, both of which seem to take an eternity. Finally, she gives up and tiptoes to the bathroom; unwilling to face herself in the mirror, she forgoes the light and washes her face in the darkness, but the moonlight is just treacherous enough to provide a vague reflection nonetheless. She leans against the sink and grips it tightly, staring into the mirror, reluctantly looking for answers she's not entirely sure she wants to find.

_There's nothing wrong with having these types of dreams_, the reflection rationalizes; _in all fairness, they are even long overdue, but seeing you're sort of a late bloomer in this kind of thing, I guess it figures the dreams came late too._ She shakes her head and sighs – she knows all of this. It's not the dreams that bother her – _actually, the dreams themselves are fantastic and more than welcome_, her mind blurts out clearly and she's suddenly certain she's blushing. _Great, I'm probably the only person alive that's capable of feeling embarrassed in front of her own reflection_, she groans inwardly and escapes the bathroom. Rubbing her temples, she sinks into the armchair across from her bed. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

It's the face. It's the face in the dreams that's wrong, it's not that face she should be seeing, but still, somehow, it's the only face that she sees. To make matters worse, there's the issue of all those feelings she can't account for from any experience. She'd never felt anything even remotely as consuming and crazed in reality as she does in those dreams, and she'd give anything to be able to attach a different pair of eyes to those feelings. She'd give anything to have to look way up at them instead of just tilting her head slightly, she'd be ecstatic if she curled her fingers in straight hair for once, but it never happens. It's always the crooked smirk and dark eyes she's faced with, and now, curled up in the armchair in the moonlight, she just doesn't dare ask herself why that is.

….

"So there's this dinner thing at the inn tonight," Luke says over a bowl of cereal.

"Have fun," Jess shrugs and picks a piece of toast.

"I'm sure we will," Luke nods pointedly.

"Wow, sounds like you're operating under the illusion I'm going," Jess chuckles.

"You are going," Luke declares with certainty.

Jess shrugs. "I appreciate the invite and all, but I've got other plans."

"See, that's where you're wrong – don't consider it an invite. It's more like a summons. Or a subpoena."

"All the more reason to steer clear," Jess mumbles through a mouthful.

Luke leans back in his chair and decides to switch gears. "Okay, how about this? I'm not forcing you to go. I'm asking you to go, as a favor to me."

Jess picks another piece of toast, wondering what to make of this new development. "Why?" he squints at Luke.

"Because it's bound to be one of those silly town spectacles that make me nauseous most of the time, and having someone of a similar frame of mind around might make the whole experience somewhat easier to bear," Luke shrugs honestly.

Jess gives up on the toast and leans back as well, swaying on the chair. "Okay, so just to clarify – you're asking a favor?"

"I guess I am," Luke nods cautiously.

"A favor as in, I do this for you and then you owe me one?" Jess points out.

"That's the general meaning of the word, yeah," Luke rolls his eyes.

"And seeing that you'll owe me one, I get to call it in whenever I want to?"

"Provided it doesn't involve anything illegal or morally questionable, yeah" Luke nods, frowning.

Jess looks at him, but Luke doesn't blink; the staring contest continues for a while, and Jess finally lets the chair land on the floor and goes back to the toast. "Okay," he shrugs, "but I reserve the right to mock and ridicule the whole thing."

"I'd expect nothing less," Luke mutters and swallows a smile.

….

"So, a heads-up - I came across an incredibly rare and under-priced early recording of the Animals on eBay, and I'm having it shipped to your house," Lane chirps excitedly as she bursts into Rory's room.

"Sure," Rory yawns and pulls on a sweater.

"It's a rehearsal version of House of the rising sun," Lane continues with a sigh, crawling onto the bed. "In 3 to 6 days, I will own history in the making."

"I'll make sure it's treated with care and respect it deserves," Rory reassures her and stretches her arm, cringing.

"Are you okay?" Lane frowns, looking her over. "You seem… crumpled."

"I fell asleep in the armchair, and I'm pretty sure I dislocated something and stiffened a few other things," Rory yawns again. "Didn't really get much sleep either way."

"Nightmares?" Lane asks sympathetically.

"On some level, definitely," Rory mumbles but sternly directs her mind away from last night. "So, did you manage to convince your Mom you don't need a chaperon for the dinner tonight?"

Lane's face sinks and she shakes her head. "I very nearly did," she sighs," but then she walked into Luke's this morning and caught me talking to Jess. Apparently paying for coffee equals a full-fledged love affair, so you know, she just reversed to the original plan of babysitting me until I turn sixty."

"Sorry," Rory smiles emphatically.

"Yeah well, it wasn't beyond fixing until Luke blurted out that both him and Jess are going as well – that really didn't sit well with her. It wouldn't surprise me if she presented me with a home pregnancy test the next time I see her," Lane shrugs with resignation.

Rory barely registers anything past the Jess reference. "Jess, coming to Bracebridge dinner? I would have expected him to run away screaming at the very idea," she says incredulously, squirming at the sudden surge of panic.

"I know, it's weird," Lane agrees, frowning. "But Jess is weird, so it kind of figures," she shrugs it off quickly and reaches for a stack of cds.

Rory nods her head and swallows, attempting to deliver the next question as casually as humanly possible. "Do you have any classes with him? At school?"

"A few," Lane says absentmindedly, looking through the cds. "You should really alphabetize these," she adds reproachfully.

"I do, but the other Lorelai lives here too," Rory points out, and takes a breath. "What's he like?"

Lane frowns. "Who?" She lifts a cd. "Leonard Cohen?"

"No," Rory rolls her eyes. "Jess. What's he like at school?"

Lane shrugs. "I don't know… Quiet. Brooding. Has that whole dark and dangerous routine down perfectly." She looks at the cd and frowns. "Come to think of it, the description kind of works for Cohen too," she chuckles.

"Lane, focus," Rory warns.

"Right," Lane nods quickly and puts the cd away. "So, Jess. When he does show up, he spends most of his time reading. Doesn't really talk to anyone," she shrugs. "Goes without saying, he's got most of the female population intrigued, and in turn, most of the male population pissed off. Oh, he's got pretty good taste in music," she adds with an appreciative nod. "The Clash t-shirts and such."

"Most of the female population intrigued?" Rory repeats. "Meaning?"

"Oh come on," Lane laughs, "I know you're committed and everything, but you're not blind."

Rory shrugs. "I guess I'm just missing the appeal," she says indifferently, and cringes inwardly at the easiness with which the lie rolls of her tongue. This is Lane, after all. She shouldn't be lying to Lane. _Again, what's wrong with me?_

"Wow, you really are blind," Lane declares with a head-shake. "Must be great, being so head-over-heels in love with someone that you're just completely oblivious to anyone else," she sighs enviously.

Inwardly, Rory cringes again but makes no comment; she just gets up from the bed and pulls on Lane's hand. "Come on, let's go get some coffee; I'm meeting Mom in an hour. She's insisting we re-attach Bjork's head, although I fail to see the point, considering that snow masterpiece a few feet away."

"It's much too flashy if you ask me," Lane shrugs, getting up. "There's such a thing as too much perfection."

Rory chuckles. "So you think Bjork has a chance?"

"Against that thing?" Lane shakes he head. "No way."

…

Rory can't sleep; whether it's due to all the impossible Bracebridge food, or just because there are too many thoughts running around her head, she doesn't know – the fact remains that she's wide awake and so she finally lets her eyes snap open and roam around the room. She listens to Lorelai's breathing for a while, and once she's satisfied it's deep and even, she carefully untangles herself from the blankets. Unwilling to wander around the inn in her pajamas, she digs out a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie from her backpack. She gets dressed silently and tiptoes around the room in search of shoes; she slips into them quietly and sneaks out into the hallway.

The inn is quiet and the lights are low; she finds her way into the kitchen and makes a giant cup of hot chocolate. Cradling the steaming cup in her hands, she wanders to the lobby, wondering whatever happened to her grandmother. Slightly worried Emily really might have decided to drive home in the middle of the night, she sneaks out to the porch and squints towards the cars in the parking lot, trying to make out whether her grandparents' car is still there. It is, and she gives a small sigh of relief, and looks around. It's a beautiful, clear night, and it's almost as bright as day because of all the snow; it's comforting and peaceful, and strangely, not really cold at all. After some contemplation, she sets her mug down on the railing and goes back inside in search of a blanket or a throw. She finds one soon enough, and returns outside where she wraps herself in it and settles on the porch swing; delightfully warm in her cocoon, she wraps her fingers around the mug and sips on the chocolate, staring out into the snow.

Time passes; nothing around her moves and quickly the thoughts that kept her awake return, and once again, she finds herself reluctantly going through her conversations with Dean. It annoys her that such a random question from Jess is actually keeping her up, but she figures the sooner she resolves the issue, the sooner she can forget about it. She didn't lie when she said they talk about anything and everything – they do. They talk about everyday things, they talk about school, they talk about their families, they talk about movies they want to see... but somehow, as she looks back on the conversations, they all somehow seem shallow and superficial. Sadly, she realizes that it wouldn't really matter if those conversations never happened at all, neither of them would lose anything - there was just no greater meaning in any of them.

Something is moving in the distance, and as the shape comes closer, she figures out it's not something, but someone. It only takes her a few seconds to recognize the lazy walk and the yellow jacket, and she suddenly feels annoyed he's disturbing this perfect solitude of hers. Footsteps sound on the porch steps and, unable to decide whether she wants him to notice her or not, she tries to sink lower inside her blanket. The swing creaks from the movement; hiding is suddenly not an option anymore, and she just watches him as approaches.

"Couldn't stay away from the snow?" he smirks.

"Couldn't sleep," she shrugs. "What's your excuse?"

"Had something to do," he chuckles and leans against the railing.

"It's the middle of the night, and you're running errands?" She shakes her head. "This is Stars Hollow, try again."

He smirks. "Yeah, well… there's a time and place for everything."

"Right," she nods, "so another fake corpse spectacle?"

"I rarely repeat myself," he laughs. "Sorry if I freaked you out," he adds apologetically.

She frowns. "Why would I be freaked out?"

"Middle of the night, someone creeping up the driveway…" he shrugs. "The scenario has some freak-out potential."

Rory laughs and shakes her head. "Again, this is Stars Hollow. You see someone wandering around in the dead of night, you don't freak out; you ask them if they're okay and offer them a couch to crash on," she says matter-of-factly. "Besides, I knew it was you."

"Really?" he frowns. "How's that?"

"Just the way you walk," she shrugs and sips her chocolate.

Jess smirks and pushes his hands in his pockets. "You know my walk?"

She grips her mug tighter and ignores him, suddenly wishing he'd go away.

"So, what did you think of the festivities? Successful?" he asks when it becomes apparent she has nothing to say.

"You were there," she shrugs.

"True, but sadly, I lack the knowledge of the local cultural and social intricacies required to judge whether it was a success or not," he smirks and pulls out his cigarettes. "These things are still thoroughly alien to me, so you know, I'll defer to your assessment."

An unwilling smile escapes her and she thaws a little. "Generally, it was okay, I guess," she says reluctantly. "On a personal level, not so much."

"I'm sure there will be other sleigh-rides with Dean," he points out with mock sympathy.

She looks at him blankly. "What?" She frowns and it takes a moment to figure out what he meant. "Wow, you really must think I'm hopelessly shallow. That's not even remotely what I was talking about."

"Okay, my mistake, don't bite my head off," he smirks and lights a cigarette. "I'm not a mind reader, you know."

_Thank God for that,_ she thinks silently and sips on her chocolate again.

"My grandparents had this huge fight," she blurts out suddenly, and then spends a few confusing seconds staring into her mug and wondering why on Earth she's telling him this. He watches her stare and wonders the same thing.

"People fight," he says gently. "They'll work it out."

"I don't like it," she mumbles to the mug.

"It's probably not a big deal," he tries again, somewhat uncertain what he should say.

"It is to me," she quips quickly, suddenly realizing it actually is a much bigger deal than she thought it was a few hours ago; it must be, if she's being so snappish about it. "Sorry," she looks at him apologetically, "but as weird and as dysfunctional as they are, those two are actually the only example of a lasting relationship I've ever seen, and just the idea of them breaking up freaks me out more than an entire army of late-night creepers ever could. It's ridiculous, I know," she smiles and pushes her hair back.

"It's not ridiculous," he shakes his head, suddenly feeling very close to her, and his stomach jolts unexpectedly. "I get it," he says simply.

She looks at him curiously, inwardly surprised at how easy it is to talk to him, and completely unprepared for such thorough understanding in his eyes. It's easy to recognize and she quickly realizes that he really does get it and she doesn't need to say anything else.

"Aren't you cold?" she wonders suddenly, retreating to safer topics.

His eyebrows lift. "Are you offering to share the blanket?"

"In your dreams," she chuckles. _Am I flirting?_

"I'll settle for a corner piece," he smirks.

"Funny, I didn't think you're the type to settle for anything," she challenges with a smile. _Yes, definitely flirting._

The smirks grows. "It can take a while to get what you want," he points out casually, puts out the cigarette and moves over to the swing. "And one step at a time usually works best," he adds and sits down next to her.

A thousand alarms go off in her head; she pulls the blanket tighter around herself and shifts away a little. _Definitely _not_ flirting anymore._

"I don't bite," he points out playfully at the maneuver, "or forcefully snatch blankets away from unsuspecting victims."

"Well, you could try," she warns with half a smile, "but you'd walk funny for a week."

"Okay, so you're very possessive about the blanket, got it," he grins, and points to her mug. "Your feelings equally strong about the chocolate?"

She frowns. "You want my chocolate?"

"I asked nicely," he points out.

"What do you want it for?" she asks suspiciously.

"You know, the usual, see if it wants to go to dinner, maybe a movie," he says seriously.

"Funny," she grimaces.

"It was a stupid question," he shrugs. "It's warm. It smells good. Figure it out."

She rolls her eyes and hands him the mug. "Don't hog it," she warns.

"Jesus," he mutters and takes the mug. "You really suck at sharing."

"And you're really needy," she counters, and he instantly burst out laughing. "What?" she frowns, startled.

"Needy," he croaks. "I've been called a lot of things, but needy is a first," he mumbles, covering a yawn.

"Seems it's past your bedtime," she points out with a smile.

"I could sleep," he smirks and sips the chocolate.

"Don't let me keep you," she says casually, determined to ignore the pang of regret.

"I can't go, you'd be bored to death," he grins.

"No, I wouldn't," she says defiantly.

"Trust me," he reaffirms.

"I was fine before you got here," she frowns.

"That's because you didn't know what you were missing," he shrugs.

"Oh, and there's the over-inflated ego," she quips ironically. "I was wondering what happened to that."

He leans over, handing the chocolate back. "You want me to go?"

_No._ "I don't care," she says flatly.

"So, you don't want me to go," he smirks.

"Your grasp of English could use some work," she points out.

"Still, you don't want me to go," he chuckles.

"That's not what I said," she says exasperatedly.

"No, you wouldn't say that, would you?" he says, amused; she throws him a dirty look and he shrugs. "It was a rhetorical question."

"Whatever," she deadpans, but squirms on the inside.

"I'm staying," he informs her casually.

"Again, I don't care," she shrugs.

"Fine," he smirks.

"Fine," she shrugs.

He shakes his head and looks for his cigarettes again; she stares at the snow with borderline fanatic determination, wavering between annoyance and fascination and irked at how much her heart has picked up speed since he invaded her swing. _I should just go back up to bed and stare at the ceiling,_ she rationalizes objectively, and slowly begins to prepare an exit strategy, but makes a fateful mistake when she looks over and finds him watching her; once again, it feels like he's seeing straight through her.

"_I'm a relatively respectable citizen. Multiple felon perhaps, but certainly not dangerous_," he says casually and blows a hoop of smoke towards the sky.

"Hunter S. Thompson," she says absentmindedly.

He smiles, and she relaxes back into her blanket.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	5. Of Grace, Envy and Daydreams

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**04. Of Grace, Envy and Daydreams**

Although he still resents the fact with unfaltering resolve, Jess ultimately admits to himself the existence of Stars Hollow's singular saving grace; however, since it comes with a complimentary boyfriend and an aura of distinct unavailability, its grace-like qualities are somewhat diminished. This epiphany hits unexpectedly the day when Rory fails to stop by and pick up her coffee on her way to school; as he watches the bus drive by, he's suddenly very aware that he was actually waiting for her to walk through the door, just like he'd been waiting every other day of the week, barring this unwelcome new level of understanding. He'd never waited for anyone in his life, and a not long ago he would have sworn he never would and meant it – now, the new development creates an unexpected dent in his belief system, not to mention the annoying mental and emotional disarray that comes in tow with this unforeseen shift of the universe.

Irked and irritated, he swings his backpack over his shoulder and stalks off to school, playing thoroughly deaf to Luke's bellow over clearing his coffee from the counter. He spends the first two periods staring into a book and obstinately ignoring any deeper meaning in the morning discovery. The third period brutally re-actualizes the issue when he finds himself sharing the classroom with Dean, and spends the better half of the hour staring at the back of his head. Despite himself, Jess quickly discovers that the usual array of contemptuous feelings toward the over-sized dink has now dutifully expanded to make room for a trace of envy to boot. It's a bitter pill to swallow, and predictably, he all but chokes on it as it goes down. Still, it is what it is; he's learned long ago that, as useful and as necessary as lying can be when it comes to the outside world, it's equally useless to apply the same principle to yourself.

Minutes drag into eternity and staring at Dean's head quickly loses its appeal once it transforms into a personification of jealousy in Jess's mind, and his stomach turns over queasily at the nauseous truth that he's actually envious of the guy, even if it is envy of the minutest degree. He shifts his gaze to the book again, determined to evict this whole pathetic stream of thoughts from his head, completely confident that shrugging them away is simply a matter of will and self-discipline, just like anything else. Seven minutes and two pages later, the discipline slips and the thoughts creep back, but his mind grants a small blessing - it stays mercifully devoid of Dean and focuses on Rory instead. _The rum diary _quickly fades into a blurred backdrop, its only purpose to serve as an alibi for an otherwise blinded stare.

It would be great if she was either super smart, or insanely hot – he's been through both scenarios before and repeating them would be easy, but no such luck. This new combination of both intelligence and… _what is it, really?_ Insanely hot sounds wrong. He wouldn't exactly call her beautiful, either – it's something else, something subtle and evasive he can't really find a satisfactory adjective for. _It's something… just something different_, he finally decides and gives up on the search for a suitable term, but still assigns a mental question mark, reluctantly registering a rare instance of coming across something that evades description. _So, yeah, intelligence and whatever-it-is, not a good combination,_ he muses inwardly. _Or too good a combination, maybe?_, his blatant and annoying inner self challenges instantly and he suddenly wishes he could just kick it in the head, but regretfully, physically restraining one's sub-consciousness is not a feasible option. _It makes no difference anyway, _he shoots the implication down categorically instead; the entire thing is probably rooted in curiosity anyway, and once he figures her out, his interest in her is bound to wane proportionally. It happens with everything else.

The figuring her out part is taking unusually long, though; typically, people lose the capacity to surprise him within a week, yet she still somehow manages to stay fairly unpredictable. Just when he thinks he's nailed her, she flings a neat curve-ball that flawlessly shatters any standing theories to smithereens and sends him right back to the beginning, pushing and probing for more information. It's not that she hides anything, or purposefully plays mind-games – she's probably the most pitiful liar he's ever encountered – it's just that her mind is somehow wired in circuits that are (_for the moment!_) completely alien to his logic, and the method in which these circuits connect is still enigmatic. _A challenge, therefore – interesting_, he smirks to himself. _Cute too,_ the inner voice supplies dutifully; _too cute_, he finds himself thinking, and cringes.

Not a moment too soon, the bell mercifully announces lunch-break, and Jess quietly slips out of the classroom first, and school altogether second, easily deciding he's had enough education for the day. Since skipping school in Stars Hollow automatically entails skipping Stars Hollow altogether (courtesy of too many watchful eyes occupying entirely too small a space for procrastinators to remain unnoticed) he makes a wide circle and catches a Hartford-bound bus on the road out of town. Hartford itself is today only mildly safer in that respect (Luke mentioned running some errands), and once there, he aims for a venue he's certain his uncle wouldn't be caught dead in. _At least Luke's predictable, _he smirks to himself; an unexpected warmth comes with the thought and catches him by surprise. Uncertain what to do with it, he shrugs it off gently and pushes open a sticker-covered door.

Greeted by an obscure live rendition of _Cross-Eyed Mary_, he zigzags through rows of displays; the familiar space is cluttered and darkish, courtesy of unwashed windows and dust. It reeks of general neglect and organized chaos, and as he finds his way to his usual spot, an inadvertent smile drifts across his face – yes, he likes it here. He drops his backpack to the floor and rummages through a box of random records until one catches his eye. He loads it into an ancient player, puts the headphones on and sinks to the floor; the wall provides a backrest and, preparing to spend an hour or two completely dead to the world, he digs _The rum diary _out of the backpack.

_She laughed. "It won't last. Nothing lasts. But I'm happy now."_

_"Happy," I muttered, trying to pin the word down. But it is one of those words, like Love, that I have never quite understood. Most people who deal in words don't have much faith in them and I am no exception-especially the big ones like Happy and Love and Honest and Strong. They are too elusive and far too relative when you compare them to sharp, mean little words like Punk and Cheap and Phony. I feel at home with these, because they're scrawny and easy to pin, but the big ones are tough and it takes either a priest or a fool to use them with any confidence._

Time becomes a foreign, irrelevant construction as he turns the pages, scribbling and underlining here and there; the record in the player runs its course once, but he can't be bothered to get up and choose another one, so he just lets it reset and start over. About half-way through its second run, a shadow falls over his book; a moment later, the headphones get pulled off his ears and he squints up, annoyed and disoriented.

A flash of blue eyes and a smile. "Hi," says Rory, crouching in front of him.

"Hey," he echoes blandly, then pulls himself together. "Well, of all the gin joints… or something to that effect," he smirks, and closes the book.

She laughs. "You make it sound like you own the place."

"Well, maybe not, but this particular corner I like to think of as my own," he shrugs. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Do I need a reason?" she asks playfully.

"No, but most people tend to have one," he smirks. "And I'll go out on a limb here and guess you're one of those."

She smiles, dangling the headphones. "And how do you figure that?"

"You just don't strike me as the wandering type," he chuckles. "Too purposeful."

She frowns. "I can be spontaneous," she points out defiantly.

"Occasionally, on weekends, maybe," he allows, unconvinced. "On a Wednesday, I'm not buying it," the smirk returns and he folds his arms. "So, what are you doing here?"

For a moment, she looks ready to argue the point, but ultimately gives it up. "I have a list," she shrugs.

"Jesus, you really need professional help," he laughs. "Ever heard of just browsing till something catches your eye? Or ear, in this instance?"

"It's not _my_ list," she rolls her eyes. "It's Lane's. Basically, she has me dropping by once a week to check if by some remote chance one of these obscure titles has surfaced."

His eyebrows lift. "And have they ever?"

"No," she shakes her head, smiling, "but I'm pretty sure by now the guy behind the counter thinks I have a crush on him or something."

He cranes his neck and checks out the bearded, leather-clad, middle-aged specimen in question. "The ZZ Top wanna-be?" he inquires incredulously, looking back at her.

"The very one," she laughs, nodding. "He's actually really nice, just… not my type."

"Well, I don't know," he draws out, looking over again. "Seems hell of a lot more interesting than Dean to me."

An uncertain look drifts across her face and her eyebrows knit together for a moment, but she lets a smile escape nonetheless. "In that case, be my guest," she chuckles, then moves on. "How about you, what are you doing here?"

"Killing some time," he shrugs. "Trying to find some music that will, hopefully, make Luke twitch and run for the apartment door screaming… or, huffing, at least," he corrects himself quickly.

She chuckles. "I thought you had that covered."

"Well, apparently he adjusts quickly," he admits regretfully. "Yesterday I heard him humming to _Lost in supermarket_, so clearly, it's high time to move on to something else."

She rolls her eyes and pulls the headphones over her head: …_well, I ain't often right but I've never been wrong... seldom turns out the way it does in a song... once in a while you get shown the light.. .in the strangest of places if you look at it right..._

She laughs and removes the headphones. "Grateful Dead is your torture device of choice?"

"I'm open to suggestions," he smirks.

"I'm not helping you torment Luke," she declines evenly, "I don't have either the inclination or the time. Speaking of which," she glances at her watch, "I have to go."

He chuckles. "How very …spontaneous… of you," he declares off-handedly and smirks as she makes a face.

"It's a Wednesday, remember?" she reminds him, getting up. "Are you about done with time-killing?"

"For today, anyway," he smirks, and follows her out to the street; the door slams behind them and the Open sign dangles precariously on its flimsy nail.

"Who told you about this place, anyway?" Rory asks, nodding toward the door behind them as they make their way down the sidewalk.

"Nobody told me," he shrugs. "I just came across it one day."

She frowns. "It's pretty out of the way. I didn't think you knew Hartford that well."

"I don't," he smirks.

She throw him a doubtful look.

"I was just wandering and sort of stumbled across it," he elaborates.

She chuckles. "So you just naturally gravitate to these sort of hole-in-the-wall, back-alley establishments?"

"Pretty much, yeah," he smirks again.

She looks at her feet and nods. "Yeah, you would," she says quietly; surprised, he detects a fleeting hint of envy in her voice and glances at her curiously, wondering where it's coming from.

"You didn't get Grateful Dead," she suddenly remembers and raises her eyebrows at him.

"Yeah, I figured you called that one right," he chuckles. "Not nearly noisy enough. For now, I'll just crank The Clash up louder and keep my fingers crossed."

"Don't you have any other music at home?" she wonders. "Hail to The Clash and everything, but if that's as far as you go…"

"No, that's as far as Liz sent me," he interjects. "Or didn't send me, actually."

She frowns. "I thought you got your stuff weeks ago. Did she forget to pack all of it?"

There's such naivety and sincere puzzlement in her face as she asks the question that he quickly swallows the decidedly acerbic response and settles for a mildly bitter chuckle. "Okay, just to clarify – when it comes to Liz, what you envision as packing in actuality comes much closer to hauling a box into my room, and stuffing it full of random items to the point when the box is full. Anything out of immediate reach gets left behind. Also, we're talking about one box, singular - anything beyond that would entail a logistics hassle she wouldn't bother with."

"Oh," she says quietly and mulls this over for a minute. "Are you missing a lot of stuff?"

"I have three cds out of a box-full, and eleven books out of two shelves," he chuckles. "You do the math."

She contemplates this silently until they reach the bus stop, then throws him an uncertain glance as they sit down. "Maybe you should call and ask her to send the rest of it," she suggests in a small voice.

"I'm not asking her for anything," he snaps vehemently and lights a cigarette. She looks away quickly; Jess instantly regrets the outburst and softens his tone. "It's no big deal, forget it."

She nods but says nothing.

"I kind of hoped there's be more books, though," he adds after a moment, in an effort to break the silence; he usually doesn't mind silences, but somehow there's too much understanding in this one.

"You can have any of mine," she offers quickly, sounding equally relieved.

"I can't doodle in yours," he points out.

"That didn't stop you with _Howl_," she reminds him with a chuckle.

He smirks. "I was trying to make an impression."

She smiles. "Well, you did."

A weird sense of satisfaction swells inside and throws him off for a second, but he brushes it off quickly. "Besides, _Howl_ is meant to be doodled in. Empty margins are almost an insult."

She looks at him curiously. "Why do you doodle, anyway?"

He frowns. "Actually, scribble might be a better word. Doodling implies drawing, which is definitely not among my hidden talents."

"Fine, then why do you scribble?" she chuckles.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Things come into my head and I write them down."

"So effectively, you talk to yourself about what you read," she surmises, her eyebrows rising. "Why not talk to other people about it?"

He laughs. "No the right people around, I guess."

She intones another soft 'oh' and falls silent again; it's another silence that speaks volumes and another one he wants to cut short.

"So what's your choice for this week?" he asks with a smirk; she looks confused and he nods toward her bag. "Your bus book, what is it?"

She smiles. "Byron."

"As in Lord? Jesus," he mumbles. "Do you have a dictionary to go with that?"

She laughs. "It's actually not that archaic," she shrugs. "I don't know, I like it more than I thought I would."

He shakes his head. "All the thous, thynes and such tend to ruin the experience for me."

"Yeah, it takes some getting used to," she nods with a chuckle, "but there's some really amazing stuff." Her eyes suddenly sparkle and she opens her bag in a rush. "I read this glorious passage this morning, it's incredible," she says excitedly and pulls out a thick book.

Jess eyes it suspiciously for a moment then looks back at Rory. "You're not going to make me read poetry now, are you?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "Lazy-brain… Fine, I'll read it to you." She turns a few pages and clears her throat:

_When the moon is on the wave,  
And the glow—worm in the grass,  
And the meteor on the grave,  
And the wisp on the morass;__  
__When the falling stars are shooting,  
And the answer'd owls are hooting,  
And the silent leaves are still  
In the shadow of the hill,  
Shall my soul be upon thine,__  
__With a power and with a sign._

He listens intently, but not half as intently as he watches her lips move or her hand drift up and push back the hair that falls around her face as she looks down at the book. He's never had anyone read to him before and there is something strangely ethereal about the experience that he's not in any way prepared for. It instantly robs him of any sarcasm or irony – somehow, either feels as misplaced at the moment as screeching madly in a library would be. Instead, his mind suddenly supplies a very different scene, something involving being stretched out on the moonlit grass somewhere, his head resting on her lap as he peers up into her face and listens as she reads. The scene dissipates as she runs out of verse, and he's abruptly snapped back to reality, scampering to get rid of the daydream. _Daydream?_ _I'm seriously losing it, _he thinks wildly; _what the hell is wrong with me?_

"Well?" she asks, and looks at him expectantly.

He resists the urge to shake his head clear, and refocuses. "Creepy," he offers, and compliantly registers that the comment applies to the mayhem in his head as much as it does to the Byron excerpt.

"And it gets even creepier as it goes on," she nods enthusiastically, and looks back at the book; for one terrifying moment, he thinks she's going to keep reading and suffers a momentary brain-freeze, but she mercifully closes the book and pushes it back into her bag.

"What is it about, anyway?" he asks, curios now that the book is safely out of sight.

"I'm not telling," she chuckles, "but you can have it once I'm done, and find out for yourself." The bus appears, and she stands up and looks at him. "Doodling included," she adds with a smile, "as long as you restrain yourself to pencils."

Still scrambling to wrap his mind around the recent lapse into… _well,_ _sheer insanity_…, he limits himself to a smirk and follows her into the bus.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	6. Of Fights, Fantasies and Friends

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

_Note: For the purpose of this story, Lane hasn't gone to Korea yet._

* * *

**05. Of Fights, Fantasies and Friends**

"Hey Mom," Rory calls from her room on a Saturday morning, "do you know what happened to my old backpack?"

"The one with the broken strap or the one in which that perfume bottle shattered and it consequently reeked to high heaven?" Lorelai hollers back from the bathroom.

Rory moves down the hall and leans against the door-frame. "We still have the one that reeks?" she asks in astonishment.

Lorelai shakes her head. "No, I threw it out. I nearly choked whenever I came within five feet of it," she mumbles over the toothbrush in her mouth.

"Well, then definitely the one with the broken strap," Rory chuckles.

Lorelai spits out the toothpaste. "Try the hallway closet, but watch out for projectiles."

Rory returns down the hallway and cracks the closet door; it seems safe enough and she pulls it open. Two boxes tumble from the top shelf and she jumps back quickly, then jumps aside, evading a falling broom.

"Any bruises?" Lorelai calls from the bathroom.

"It's all good," Rory yells back, spying the backpack sticking out underneath another box. She grabs the broom and pins the offending box in place as she pulls on the backpack. Mercifully, it doesn't set off any more projectiles (a thick cloud of dust notwithstanding) as it drops to the floor. She shoves the broom and the boxes back into the closet and wrestles the door closed, then takes the backpack out to the porch and shakes it semi-clear of dust. Realizing this is as good as it's going to get, she takes it back to her room and the pile of books on her bed, and begins packing them in.

Lorelai's voice drifts from the hall. "Hey, are we going for pancakes or do you want me to –" she cuts off abruptly as she enters the room. "Wow, are you moving out or something?" she gawks at the books disappearing into the backpack.

"No, but these are, temporarily," Rory chuckles.

Lorelai leans against the doorway. "And where are they moving to?"

Rory shrugs. "I'm lending them out," she says simply, trying not to sound too evasive.

"Right," Lorelai squints at her and strolls over to the bed, plopping herself next to the books. "Who to?" she inquires innocently, flipping through _The naked and the dead_.

Rory hesitates, then resents herself for it. "Jess," she says in a flat tone, and braces for impact.

"This may be the most depressing book I've ever read," Lorelai muses absently at the book in front of her.

"It's dark," Rory nods, defusing.

"Well, Jess will certainly love it," Lorelai deadpans.

"I'm pretty sure he's read it," Rory says regretfully.

"Then why give it to him?"

Rory shrugs. "Just in case he hasn't."

Lorelai puts the book away and folds her legs under herself. "You two are getting pretty chummy," she says in an extremely neutral tone, peering up at Rory.

"We're not …chummy," Rory argues.

Lorelai's eyebrows lift. "Then what are you?"

"I don't know," Rory shrugs. "Does every relationship need a label?"

"Wow, a relationship," Lorelai chokes out. "I love the sound of that."

Rory rolls her eyes. "It's not a relationship."

"Okay, I'm officially lost," Lorelai says ironically. "Is it a relationship or not? And I'm rooting for an emphatic 'no' here," she adds quickly.

"We just talk, occasionally," Rory sighs, reaching for _The naked and the dead_.

"Occasionally," Lorelai repeats blandly, then frowns. "And are these occasions pre-arranged?"

Rory frowns back. "Okay, now _I'm_ lost," she declares flatly.

"Pre-arranged, like through phone-calls, texting, homing pigeons or any other communication media… as in, _hey Rory, you want to get together over a minor felony tomorrow night and discuss bail procedures_," Lorelai elaborates brightly. "You know, that kind of thing."

Rory takes a breath and ignores the books for a moment, crossing her hands on her chest. "No, the talks are totally random," she says coldly, brushing the provocation aside through a very loud silence. "And even if they weren't, if we were… friends, what would be so horrible about that?" she challenges.

"Jess," Lorelai says exasperatedly, "Jess is what would be horrible about it."

"I can't believe you," Rory reproaches. "You don't even know him -"

"- and you do?" Lorelai interjects.

"Well, better than you," Rory declares defiantly.

"Right, because you two talk, occasionally," Lorelai repeats ironically. "And what exactly do you talk about that allows you such amazing insight into him?"

Rory frowns and returns to the books in a swift, deliberate manner. "Shocking as it may sound, given the circumstances, I'm not really in the sharing mood right now," she says dismissively.

"Fine," Lorelai clips, "forget about Jess. Let's talk about Dean."

Rory shoves another book into the backpack and says nothing.

"Okay, so I'll talk," Lorelai continues, nonplussed. "Seems to me, the more you talk to Jess, the less you talk to Dean. Lately I've been feeling like a glorified secretary."

"We do have an answering machine, you don't have to pick up the phone if you don't want to," Rory says absently.

"Yes, but _you _should. You should also call back," Lorelai points out tartly.

Rory rolls her eyes. "I talk to Dean. I call him back. I'm also seeing him tonight, so all is well and you can relax," she deadpans and zips up the backpack.

"I can see you're rippling with enthusiasm at the prospect," Lorelai comments flatly.

Rory throws up her hands in defeat, shaking her head. "God, what is with this Dean obsession, anyway? I swear, if we broke up, I actually think you'd run off and coddle him rather than me!"

"You're breaking up with Dean?" Lorelai croaks out in a strangled voice.

"No, that's not what I said!" Rory yells exasperatedly.

Lorelai frowns. "The words came out of your mouth, not mine," she points out blankly, standing up from the bed.

"_If_, I said _if_," Rory reiterates, arms flailing. "It's a hypothetical construction, that's what the _if_ implies!"

Lorelai squints at her. "Well, hypothetical or not, I've never heard that particular construction come out of your mouth before," she reaffirms.

Rory shakes her head incredulously. "Okay, I'm not talking about this anymore," she says sternly. Throwing one more agitated look in Lorelai's direction, she grabs the backpack and marches into the hallway.

Lorelai follows slowly, rubbing her temples along the way, and for a moment, she just silently watches Rory pull on her boots and stalk off to the coat rack in search of a jacket.

"You're right," Lorelai calls after her as she zips the jacket up, "I don't know Jess. But I know his kind."

Rory turns around and frowns at her. "For someone who professes to hate stereotypes in any shape or form, you're really clinging to this one."

As soon as the words are out she knows she's crossed that invisible line, and the sudden darkness in Lorelai's eyes doesn't come as a surprise, but Rory still glares at her defiantly, although she can't quite explain where this sudden anger comes from.

"He's bad news, Rory," Lorelai warns firmly.

Rory grabs the backpack and swings it over her shoulder. "Maybe you're right. But I'm still going to find that out for myself," she says evenly and stares into Lorelai's eyes for a moment before she reaches for the door. She pulls it open, then remembers something. "You mentioned pancakes, earlier," she questions stiffly.

Lorelai shakes her head. "Forget it. I've lost my appetite."

The blatant dismissal stings, but the righteous anger makes brushing it off much easier. "I'm meeting Lane after I drop this off, so I'll be a while," Rory grits through her teeth.

"Fine," Lorelai shrugs, "tell him I said hi."

Rory frowns. "Lane's still a _her_," she points out.

"I'm aware of that. Tell him I said hi," Lorelai repeats and starts up the stairs; Rory swallows and fights off the urge to slam the door on her way out.

…

The diner is fairly empty; the breakfast crowd has come and gone, and it's not quite time for lunch yet, so Rory finds Luke drying the dishes behind the counter. No Jess, and she can't decide whether she's grateful or disappointed he's not there. She picks a stool and drops the backpack on the floor with a sigh of relief.

Luke puts a glass away and throws the towel over his shoulder. "Coffee?" he offers, reaching for the pot.

"Always," she smiles.

He fills a mug and sets it in front of her. "Pancakes?"

"I'm good, thanks," she declines, weirdly feeling it would somehow be cheating if she ate them now, and wraps her fingers around the cup.

"Lorelai coming?" he asks, glancing toward the door.

Rory cringes inwardly and shakes her head no, staring into her cup.

"You okay?" Luke frowns at her.

"Yeah, fine," she says and looks up at him with a small smile; the frown remains and she shrugs. "Mom and I had a fight, so, you know… the day didn't start out all that great."

Luke nods thoughtfully. "Well, it happens. It'll blow over," he reassures.

"Yeah," she nods, not really convinced.

"You got school today?" Luke asks, and she's confused for a moment until he points to the backpack.

"Oh no," she shakes her head. "I just brought some books for Jess." Luke looks pleased and she enjoys the expression tremendously after the morning's debacle with Lorelai. "He said his mom… forgot… to send most of his, so…" she trails off uncertainly as his face darkens when she mentions Liz.

"Well, I hope he remembers to thank you," Luke mumbles to the counter.

"He probably won't," she chuckles, "not in so many words, anyway."

Luke throws her a quizzical glance and goes back to the dishes. "So, you two… you're getting along pretty good, huh?" he asks cautiously.

"I don't know, I guess so," she shrugs. "We talk, sometimes," she explains for the second time that morning, but the words roll out much easier in this instance.

"What's your secret?" he asks with a chuckle. "All I can get out of him is an occasional yes, no and maybe, rants and raves aside. Any attempt at conversation instantly turns into a battle," he adds with a sigh. "It's like living with Geronimo."

Rory snorts into her coffee. "Sorry," she laughs, reaching for a napkin, "I just had this disturbing visual of Jess adorned with eagle feathers. Memorable," she chuckles.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind seeing that," Luke gives a half-smile.

"Where is he, anyway?" she asks casually, suddenly realizing the question's been fighting its way out of her mouth ever since she opened the door.

"Upstairs, snoring," Luke snarls. "I stomped, I clattered glasses, I slammed closet doors, and he didn't even twitch… Maybe he's dead," he shrugs. "I'm giving him till noon, and then I'm going up there with a bucket of water."

Rory chuckles. "Want me to try and club him over the head with one of these?" she points to the backpack. "I've got _The Brothers Karamazov_ in here, and that's pretty thick," she adds jokingly.

"I doubt it would make a difference if you dropped the Encyclopedia Britannica on him, but sure, give it a shot," he shrugs and looks up as the diner door opens and people wander in. "And if by some miracle you do get him conscious, tell him to haul ass and get down here," Luke calls over his shoulder, walking toward the newcomers.

Rory sits and gapes after him, frozen; _I was kidding_, she wails inwardly, for some intangible reason utterly mortified by the idea of facing a sleeping Jess. She takes another sip of coffee, wildly searching for ways to get out of this unforeseen mission, yet somehow, the initial wave of panic subsides on its own and curiosity settles in its place. _The operative word in the 'sleeping Jess' is sleeping,_ she reminds herself, _as in unconscious, and therefore unaware_. And as far as waking him up goes, she'll just yell at him from the doorway, and be done with it. _If it works, it works – if it doesn't, well, I tried_, she concludes easily. Fairly comfortable with this plan, she slips from the stool, grabs the backpack and aims for the stairs.

She somehow reaches the apartment door much too quickly; taking a breath, she reaches for the door knob. _What if he's awake?_, her mind flashes suddenly, and she pulls away from the door. _Even worse, what if he's in the shower? Or the worst imaginable scenario, just out of the shower and prancing around naked? _The last possibility lodges her heart in her throat and all but sends her running back down the stairs before a trace of reason offers an ingeniously simple solution: _Knock._ Steadying herself, heart rate and breathing included, she softly taps on the opaque glass; nothing happens, and she repeats the process, this time with more strength and determination. Silence. _Get over yourself,_ she commands sternly and pushes the door open. Stepping inside, her eyes dart around wildly until they focus on a makeshift bed; the angle is bad and all she sees is a pile of blankets. She softly drops the backpack to the floor and takes a few steps closer and to the side until she makes out the top of his head; another step and the scene completes itself.

He's lying on his back, one knee hoisted up, providing for the bad angle from the doorway; he's got one hand strewn across his chest, and the other stretched above his head. She stands still and watches him for a moment, ready to bolt at the smallest twitch. A clock on the shelf softly ticks away one long minute, and she unclenches gradually, recognizing a rare chance to stare, undisturbed and unnoticed.

He looks as unconcerned and aloof asleep as he does awake; if possible, even more so, and somehow, this confirms that that devil-may-care attitude of his really is genuine, but this is the only common denominator between the two versions. Asleep, his face looks softer, smoother, easier… _unguarded,_ the word finally appears; it's perfect and she applies it generously, wondering if this expression ever appears when he's awake. She's never seen it. She wants to, she instantly realizes, she wants to witness this unfamiliar version in a conscious state, with eyes that match it. It's gentle and endearing, and she suddenly feels a compelling urge to trace her fingers down the familiar but mildly transformed lines of his face, wondering if his skin is as soft as it looks, curious if the half-smile he's wearing would grow at the touch.

He stirs, and she freezes still; he pulls a hand over his eyes and turns his head slightly, and she bolts for the door in a flash of panic. She pulls it closed with shaky fingers, and stands rigid, listening intently. There's only silence and she exhales and slumps against the wall, cringing. _What was I thinking,_ she wonders wildly; the question is derogatory and rhetorical in nature, but her mind dutifully recalls the impulse to touch him nonetheless. She quickly shakes of the memory and, decidedly mortified, marches down the stairs and back into the diner. Luke is mercifully busy in the kitchen, so she grabs her jacket and scampers out of the diner and around the corner, where, blinded and breathless, she runs into a moving obstacle.

"Ouch," Lane cries, rubbing her shoulder. "Who's chasing _you_?" She looks up at Rory and blanks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Yeah, and it lives inside my head," Rory blurts out and pulls Lane away from the diner.

"I thought we were having coffee," Lane looks back, puzzled.

"We are, just… not here," Rory says reluctantly.

Lane glances at her quizzically, but follows her down the street. "You're sure that ghost is inside your head, and not in there?"

Rory makes no comment, busy with her inner mess.

"It's Jess, isn't it?" Lane's eyes narrow. "What did he do?"

"Nothing, he just slept," Rory slips and instantly wants to bite her tongue. She peers at Lane and watches her mouth 'he just slept' to herself.

"Okay, I don't know what to do with that," she says after a moment and frowns at Rory again. "Elaborate."

"Could we not get into that right now?" Rory mutters to the sidewalk.

Lane looks her over, contemplating. "As long as we get to it eventually," she chuckles.

"Eventually," Rory nods and throws her a grateful look. "So what's up?" she asks, anxious to move on to topics as unrelated to Jess as humanly possible.

"Well, it's been confirmed – I'm being shipped off to Korea once school is out," Lane sighs dejectedly.

"That's still months away, your Mom might change her mind," Rory points out, startled.

"She won't. She bought the ticket. I saw it. It's one way," Lane emphasizes.

"You might like it there," Rory suggests cautiously.

"Or I might hate it but get stuck there forever anyway," Lane counters dully.

"You're being unusually calm about this," Rory observes, somewhat puzzled.

"No, not calm," Lane shakes her head, "catatonic. There's a difference."

"I stand corrected," Rory says apologetically.

"Oh, I'm a freak-out waiting to happen," Lane declares with conviction. "Once the inevitability of the whole thing really sinks in, I'm sure I'll have an epic meltdown. I'm just not quite there yet."

"Well, if worst comes to worst, and it really turns out to be a one way trip, just let me know and we'll mount a rescue mission," Rory says emphatically. "I promise not to forsake you in the Korean sticks."

"Let you know how? I might end up in some Catholic school in the middle of nowhere, cut off from any means of communication and civilization in general …oh God," she suddenly stops dead in her tracks, "what if it's one of those stone monasteries without heat, or running water, or -" she grabs Rory's hand " – _electricity_? As in, _no music_?"

"Well, there's always the mass choir," Rory offers weakly.

Lane lets go of her and walks on blindly. "Mass choir," she chokes. "I'm going to kill myself."

"No, you won't, because you're only going to Korea for the summer," Rory points out reasonably.

"One way ticket, Rory," Lane reminds her.

"There could be a thousand explanations for that," Rory says softly.

"Yeah, the Catholic school from hell being one of them," Lane quips, "so clearly, I need a contingency plan. Or at least, a fool proof way for you to find me…" Her face brightens. "Maybe I could get a GPS tracker implanted."

"Or even just get one, without the implantation bit," Rory suggests, trying to tone the excitement down somewhat. "I think they also come as watches, and that would conveniently leave out any body mutilation."

"Yeah, that might work," Lane muses, frowning in concentration. "Maybe I could get it installed into a rosary…" Rory looks at her blankly. "A watch might get confiscated… come on, Rory, work with me here," Lane rolls her eyes.

"Right, right, a rosary, that's brilliant," Rory nods quickly.

Lane contemplates this for a moment, but seems satisfied. "You weren't kidding about the rescue mission, right?"

Rory laughs and wraps her arm around Lane's shoulders. "Dead serious, even I have to outdo everything James Bond has ever done."

Lane nods, and says nothing; for a while they just walk silently, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

"He asked about you, you know," Lane says suddenly as their alternative coffee location springs into view.

"Who did?" Rory asks absently.

"Jess," Lane says casually, and Rory stops in mid-step.

"When?"

Lane stops as well, surprised. "I don't know, a while ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Rory gawks at her.

"I didn't think you'd care," Lane shrugs, then looks at Rory curiously. "Do you?"

"No!" The answer comes out too quick and much too emphatic, and Lane's eyebrows lift. "I mean, I don't _care _care, like I care… I'm just curious," Rory rambles, painfully aware she's making the whole thing worse with every next word; annoyed at herself, she starts walking again.

"Right, I can see that," Lane nods, following, and casts another quizzical look her way.

Rory stays silent for a few steps, but quickly figures out Lane is not about to offer any more information on the subject. "So what did he want to know?"

"Just the regular stuff," Lane shrugs, "you know, about you and your Mom, where's your Dad, and so on. Oh, and you and Dean too."

"He asked about Dean? That's weird," Rory says quietly; Lane just shrugs. "What did you tell him?"

"That you two have been going out forever and a day and that you're happy as clams," Lane recites dutifully, then stops in front of the coffee house door before she turns to Rory and looks at her studiously. "Did I lie?" she asks softly.

"What? No, of course you didn't lie," Rory says, a touch too defensively.

"So you do still _care _care for Dean?" Lane asks innocently.

"I love Dean," Rory proclaims indignantly.

"Yes, well… there's love and _love_ love, apparently," Lane smiles cryptically, and pushes the door open.

Rory follows her inside, suddenly feeling nauseous.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	7. Of Ulcers, Deals and Favors

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**06. Of Ulcers, Deals and Favors**

"Hey, grab this and take it over to Rory and Lorelai, will you?" Luke says a little too casually and places two cheeseburgers on the counter.

Jess looks up from his book and glances over to the two Gilmores. "Nope," he says flatly and goes back to reading.

Luke stops his retreat to the kitchen. "Why not?"

"Because I don't have a death-wish," Jess declares in a dull tone.

Luke frowns and takes a breath, ready to argue the point, then gives it up and leans on the counter. "Yeah, same here," he admits grudgingly and peers toward the window table. "It's like stepping into a mute film."

"Set in an ice palace," Jess adds absently.

Luke scratches his head. "I don't get it, it's been three days."

"You are a sad, sad man," Jess chuckles and turns the page.

Luke straightens up. "Well, I'm also sick of this," he proclaims firmly. "I mean, I've actually seen people turn away at the door once they spotted the two ice-queens in here. They're killing the atmosphere, not to mention appetites." He adjusts his cap and rolls up his sleeves. "This has to stop," he announces and grabs the two plates.

"Huh, this I have to see," Jess smirks and closes the book, "but from a safe distance."

Luke throws him a dirty look and marches the plates over to the danger zone; he sets them on the table, shrugs off the two stiff thank yous and folds his arms across his chest, glaring down at mother and daughter.

"What?" Lorelai frowns when it becomes apparent he's not leaving.

"This has to stop," Luke warns with a menacing frown.

"Excuse me?" Lorelai says icily.

"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about," he points between her and Rory. "This mute hostility you two have going, I'm sick of it. And frankly, so is everyone else that walks in here."

"Well, it's none of your business," Lorelai glares at him, "or anyone else's, for that matter," she adds loudly, glaring around the diner.

"Ordinarily, I'd agree," Luke grits through his teeth, "but you two are releasing so much negative energy into my living environment that I'm beginning to develop an ulcer, and that makes it my business. Even the emotional cripple over there is not immune to the effect," he waves toward Jess, "so here's the deal: either you two work out whatever it is you have to work out, or consider yourselves banished from the premises until you do."

"You're throwing us out?" Rory gawks at him.

"My ulcer is," Luke deadpans. "The next time you two walk in here, I expect you to be your usual bubbly, giggling selves; I've had enough of this picture-but-no-tone scenario. Enjoy your burgers," he adds and stalks back toward the kitchen.

Rory and Lorelai gape after him in perfect unison for a moment, then glance at each other furtively before they move on to the plates.

"He's right, this is ridiculous," Rory says quietly to her fries.

"I'm definitely not willing to lose my coffee privileges over it," Lorelai agrees reluctantly.

"Okay, so we should talk, I guess," Rory shrugs.

"I guess so," Lorelai agrees again.

Rory picks a fry. "You want to go first?"

"Definitely not," Lorelai mutters to herself.

"Fine, I'll go," Rory sighs and takes a breath. "I'm sorry for mouthing off. I shouldn't have talked to you like that, I knew that the moment the words came out."

Lorelai nods. "Then why did you?"

"I was angry," Rory shrugs. "You were being unreasonable. You made a huge deal out of something that's not a big deal at all."

"Yeah, but see – in my head, it is a big deal," Lorelai points out bitterly.

"Why?" Rory says exasperatedly. "I don't get it, don't you trust me?"

"Don't you trust _me_?" Lorelai challenges.

"Of course I do," Rory rolls her eyes.

"Just not when it comes to Jess?" Lorelai challenges.

"Keep your voice down," Rory hisses.

Lorelai glances to the counter and leans in closer. "Well?"

Rory sighs. "I understand that you don't like him. I even understand why you don't like him. I understand your instincts are telling you he's … whatever menace you think he is, but _my_ instincts are telling _me_ he's not," she whispers.

"How about we just go with my instincts on this one, seeing as they've been around a while longer?" Lorelai whispers back. "We can go with yours the next time we order take-out or something."

"I can't do that," Rory sighs sadly."I'm not a kid anymore."

Lorelai gazes at her for a long minute. "You're right," she finally shrugs. "You're definitely not."

"Mom, this is about me occasionally talking to the guy, not bearing his children" Rory points out with a small smile.

Lorelai closes her eyes. "Oh God, there's a visual I could have done without…"

"…which brings us back to my earlier question: don't you trust me?" Rory asks solemnly. "What exactly do you picture happening here?"

"Whatever happens, it won't be good," Lorelai mumbles; Rory throws her an annoyed look and she sighs. "I trust you to know right from wrong. In five years, I'll trust you to know smart from not so smart, but right now, you're sixteen, and by default, you're sense of logic and reason is basically governed by raging hormones, so… " Lorelai trails off, shrugging.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Rory quips ironically.

"Any time," Lorelai smiles.

Rory shakes her head. "I don't know where that leaves us," she picks a fry and frowns at it, then dips it into ketchup with a vengeance.

Lorelai sighs. "Well, giggling, hopefully, or else we'll starve to death," she says wistfully.

"Mom, I'm serious," Rory rolls her eyes.

"Well, I don't know, this is a first for me too!" Lorelai says with a sigh. " I guess we'll just agree to disagree on this Jess thing – I'll curb my instinct to strangle him, you promise not to bear his children – or anyone else's, for the foreseeable future – and we'll just take it from there and see what happens."

"Okay, I have absolutely no problem with my end of that deal," Rory declares. "Does yours include refraining from acerbic comments as well as physical violence?"

"God, no," Lorelai shakes her head, "unless you want me to choke on them."

"Yeah, I thought that's be a stretch," Rory shrugs with resignation and bites into her cheeseburger.

"So, what did I miss in these last few days of sulking?" Lorelai asks brightly.

"Not that much," Rory smiles. "Paris threw a fit over the Franklin story submissions, none of which apparently quite rise to the level of quality she's aiming for, so there was a pretty ugly staff meeting on Monday. I think we lost a few first-years."

"What, she killed them?" Lorelai chuckles.

"Well, their spirits, definitely," Rory nods regretfully. "Aside from that, Lane's convinced that she's never coming back from Korea once she gets over there and she's probably googling GPS implants as we speak."

"Ouch," Lorelai yelps, "both on Korea and the implants idea."

"I promised a rescue mission," Rory says seriously.

"An overseas felony, sure," Lorelai mumbles over the cheeseburger. "It's been a while but I'm sure I'll manage."

"How about you? Anything new at the inn?" Rory asks and steals a fry.

"Oh yeah," Lorelai nods and swallows. "I was actually wondering how to communicate this mutely… I eventually settled on a dramatic note scenario… anyway, Sookie and I are going to a seminar this weekend. We're leaving on Friday and coming back on Sunday, so you're on your own for two days."

"I'll survive," Rory smiles.

"You could at least pretend you'll miss me," Lorelai pouts.

"I could," Rory smiles, and Lorelai throws her a dirty look.

"Anyway," she continues, "you want me to try and get you out of the Friday dinner?"

"That's okay, I don't mind going," Rory shakes her head.

"I'm taking the car," Lorelai warns.

"I still don't mind," Rory shrugs. "The bus is okay."

"You sure? I mean, you do realize this is a perfectly valid excuse for you to stay home?" Lorelai points out incredulously.

"I know," Rory chuckles.

"You'll be all alone against the two of them," Lorelai emphasizes.

"I can take them," Rory reassures. "And I'd rather just go than have you never hear the end of it, so just let me and don't worry about it." She steals the last fry off of Lorelai's plate and looks around the diner, purposefully avoiding Jess. "You really think he would have banished us?" she motions toward Luke.

"No," Lorelai chuckles. "But let him believe he would, it's good for his confidence."

…

Friday afternoon finds Jess roaming; school is out for the week and he's in no hurry to get back to the diner. The day is bright and clear, and smells of the coming spring; the hint of warmer weather makes him smile because it brings about seasons that allow easier wandering and sprawling on benches lost in books without freezing to death in the process. Apparently, he's not the only one who noticed the upward shift in temperature – there are suddenly a lot of people out and about once he reaches the square. There's also a bench in the sun, and he claims it quickly after making sure it's not in a direct line of sight from the diner.

He digs out a book from the backpack; it's one of Rory's, and he has yet to start it, but once again, he finds himself just looking at it. She'd brought a backpack full of them barely two or three days after he said he was missing his, and this quite literally shocked him. Even more shocking was the manner in which the books arrived; he'd just found them in the backpack on the floor one morning, and consequently pried out a somewhat vague explanation from Luke as to how they showed up at that particular spot. She'd brought them up herself, apparently, while he was asleep, and disturbingly, the first thing that springs to mind at the thought is _Jesus, I hope I wasn't drooling_.

Drooling aside, the fact remains that her bringing those books comes dangerously close to the nicest thing anyone's ever done for him. The thought is strangely heart-warming, but unsettling at the same time; it's an unfamiliar feeling and it makes him squirm because try as he might, he can't discover any ulterior motive on her part aside from a genuine desire to make him happy. He's tossed the scenario around his head a few dozen times, and it always comes back to the same conclusion – she did this for him simply because she could, and he has no idea what to make of it. There just don't seem to be any strings attached, an instance so rare in his experience that he has no predefined reaction to it. _You could read, _his mind offers sardonically, and he looks at the book again – _Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things__. _He's never heard of it. He checks out the author - Gilbert Sorrentino. Never heard of him either. He shrugs and flips the book open.

"_What if this young woman, who writes such bad poems, in competition with her husband, whose poems are equally bad, should stretch her remarkably long and well-made legs out before you, so that her skirt slips up to the tops of her stockings?"_

He chuckles, surprised; the line is somehow unexpected, even though he rarely has any real expectations when he opens a book, but this one is Rory's and he would have bet on something… more intellectual, as opposed to something… so blatantly funny. _Another curveball, _he smirks inwardly; car breaks screech on the street and he looks up to find Lorelai behind the wheel and Sookie screaming out of the passenger window at Kirk who is standing in the middle of the road, gaping at a calculator. Kirk doesn't move a muscle and Lorelai finally maneuvers around him and the Jeep disappears down the street, bags piled in the back seat and radio blaring. Jess shakes his head and goes back to the book.

"_Well, critic, tell her the poem has the clear and unmistakable stink of decay to it. Tell her. Is seeing, finally, the hair glossy between her thighs so important that you will lie? About art? You shift your body and hold the poem out – judiciously – before you, one eye half-closed. Reach for a cigarette. Well, you say. Well – this poem…"_

A shadow (a large one) suddenly blocks out the sun and darkens the page; its shape is painfully familiar and Jess groans inwardly and looks up.

"Having fun?" Luke asks, cradling a bag full of groceries.

"Well, it had potential but you sort of ruined the moment," Jess sighs.

"Forgive me if I don't apologize," Luke averts dispassionately. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Jess closes the book and stretches. "Contemplating the meaning of life," he smirks.

"Funny," Luke deadpans, shifting the groceries.

"I'm serious," Jess smirks. "A minute ago, Lorelai nearly ran Kirk over."

"That I actually believe," Luke smirks. "She and Sookie are running late for a seminar, as usual, so I'm guessing there will be heavy road-kill tonight."

Jess looks at him blankly. "Fascinating. You really need to get a life, " he shakes his head and opens the book again.

Luke eyes him for a moment, then settles on the other side of the bench. "So, is that schoolwork?" he asks, motioning to the book.

Jess sighs. "If I say yes, will you go away?"

"No," Luke says pointedly.

"Then no," Jess shrugs and turns the page.

"If it was schoolwork, however, I might have sat here quietly," Luke deadpans.

"In that case, it is schoolwork," Jess draws out.

"Sorry, no take-backs," Luke chuckles; Jess makes no comment and Luke scratches his head. "Is it any good?"

Jess closes the book. "Is this some bonding thing? Because I really hate those," he frowns, exasperated.

"No, this is me, enjoying some fresh air," Luke growls back.

"And you couldn't find your own bench for that?" Jess asks sardonically.

Luke shrugs. "This is the only one in the sun," he explains innocently.

"Okay, then how about you enjoy the sun _quietly_," Jess suggests "and refrain from interrogation in any shape or form? Read a newspaper…" he trails off as he spots an actual newspaper on top of the groceries "…or meditate," he continues and grabs the newspaper, checking the program for the evening.

As usual, nothing of even remote interest is on TV, but he catches _Jaws_ listed on the Hartford cinema repertoire in passing. There's a 70s retrospective this month and he makes a mental note of that. He folds the newspaper and glances at Luke – he's sitting quietly, his eyes half-closed, staring straight ahead. Jess follows his gaze to Doose's and finds Taylor demonstrating the proper way to distribute fliers to a flummoxed kid under a Doose's sandwich board.

"That man is a genuine nut," Jess shakes his head; Luke makes no comment and Jess frowns at him. "What, you're going to tell me I'm wrong?"

"I'm enjoying the sun, _quietly,_" Luke draws out, "so kindly refrain from interrogation, or, you know, _bonding_…" he adds with a smirk.

Jess rolls his eyes and looks toward Doose's again; the kid's had enough and is walking away with Taylor in tow, arms flailing about. Regretting the show is over, Jess opens his book again, but a caravan that stops in front of the market catches his attention, his interest multiplying when Dean comes out of Doose's and disappears in the back seat. _Dink_, Jess concludes once again in annoyance; the caravan speeds away, radio blaring again, and he quickly ascertains Lorelai's music choice was infinitely better. He returns to the book, but his mind is not in at all; instead, it's busy collecting scattered bits of information until the bigger picture forms. Once finished, it flashes through his head in perfect clarity and, closing the book with a thud, Jess turns to Luke with a smirk.

"What?" Luke asks apprehensively.

"Remember that favor you owe me?" Jess asks in an unconcerned tone.

"Regretfully, yes," Luke admits with some reluctance.

Jess smirks. "I need the truck."

"Why?" Luke asks suspiciously.

"I've found this great ditch and I'm itching to run something into it," Jess declares sarcastically.

"Okay, so that's a no on the truck," Luke quips easily.

Jess chuckles. "Oh no, that won't work. You owe me one. I did you a favor, remember?"

"True," Luke nods. "But I also remember I asked for it in a polite, civilized manner, you know, the way normal people do," he points out. "Somehow, implying you might run my only vehicle into a ditch somewhere doesn't really strike me as either polite or very civilized."

Jess rolls his eyes. "That's semantics and you know it."

"Yeah well, I suggest you try a different set of semantics then," Luke shrugs and folds his hands across his chest, his eyebrows lifting in expectation.

"You're really grasping at straws here," Jess mutters in annoyance.

Luke shrugs again; Jess frowns and glares at him in screaming silence, but Luke's expression remains impassive, and he just stares back, nonplussed.

"Fine," Jess rolls his eyes and takes a breath. "Can I borrow the truck tonight?"

"Why?" Luke asks again.

"What does that matter?" Jess asks exasperatedly.

"Because, if you're taking the truck, I want to know where you're going," Luke explains in a patient, kindergarten-teacher tone that instantly gives Jess convulsions.

"Since when is that part of the deal?" he grits through his teeth.

"I told you where we were going when I wanted a favor," Luke points out innocently, swallowing a chuckle.

Jess gets ready to argue the point, then thinks better of it. "Hartford." Luke begins to mouth another why, but Jess cuts him off. "They're showing _Jaws_._"_

Luke frowns. "Really? I haven't seen that in years. You want some company?" he asks with a chuckle.

"Not even a little bit," Jess deadpans.

"Is this a girl thing? You have a date? You actually found some poor unsuspecting soul willing to subject herself to hours of your winning personality?" Luke asks in mock seriousness.

Jess glares at him, then shakes his head. "You know what? Forget it. Nothing is worth this hassle," he snaps and grabs his book, rising from the bench.

"Oh, get over yourself, you can have the truck," Luke chuckles and starts after him. "Just steer clear of ditches, and if you drink and drive, I swear I'll find out, and at that point, what you just went through will seem like a picnic."

They walk the next few steps in silence and in his head, Jess goes over the conversation once again, unable to shake a weird feeling that he's somehow been had.

"So, did you have fun with all of this?" he finally asks, curiosity getting the better of him as they reach the diner.

"Oh, you have no idea," Luke chuckles immediately.

"If I politely told you to shove it right at the start and skipped the whole interrogation, would you still have let me have the truck?" Jess frowns, glaring at him.

"Probably. I mean, I did owe you one," Luke chuckles again. "But I appreciate the effort," he adds brightly, dumping the groceries into Jess's unsuspecting arms, and pushes the door open.

Jess follows him inside, feeling like a royal idiot.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	8. Of Jaws, Turtles and Bank Robberies

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**07. Of Jaws, Turtles and Bank Robberies**

Once Trudy (or Gertrude, or Brunhilda, or whatever the name of the new flavor of the week is) closes the door after her, Rory steps away from the Gilmore residence with a sigh of relief. Taking a deep breath, she tries to clear her head of any residual Emily chatter and hastily makes her way to down the driveway and out of the gate. Once on the street, she feels it's safe to slow down, ande rummages through her bag - after some struggle with various paraphernalia that lurk within, she finally finds her phone. _Dinner over. Have survived mostly unscathed. Will call tomorrow_, she types quickly and sends the message off to Lorelai.

Having thus completed all her obligations for the evening, she turns to thinking what to do with this precious alone time that stretches in front of her. Lorelai's gone, and she has the house to herself; Dean is gone too, and she has the whole weekend to spend entirely as she sees fit. The thought brings a wide smile to her face, but it fades gradually as she realizes she's actually _happy _she doesn't have to see him. It's all well and normal to be happy about the fact your mother is out of town, but your boyfriend? Something's not quite right with that, she cringes inwardly; something's definitely wrong if Dean suddenly feels like an obligation.

She really does love Dean, she's very sure of that – he's sweet, and good, and kind, and a thousand other things she can't think of right now. She loves him, although maybe not in quite the same way she did in the beginning, or a few months ago, but maybe this is what happens in relationships – the way you love someone changes. Just like anything else, it probably evolves over time, feelings shift this way and that, and maybe this is what a mature relationship feels like – easy, and steady, and comfortable… sort of like Richard and Emily. _Oh God, I didn't just compare Dean and me to my grandparents, did I?_, she cringes inwardly; _that's just… wrong on so many levels._ They're senior citizens, of course they're easy, steady and comfortable, and it makes perfect sense for them; however, once the terminology is applied to sixteen-year-olds, easy and steady and comfortable quickly translates to mundane, predictable and boring.

Wrestling with this disturbing conclusion, she turns a corner, sidestepping a street lamp in the nick of time; the near miss reminds her to keep her eyes ahead. She looks up, and stops in mid-step when she sees Luke's truck parked by the side of the road, with Jess perched on the tailgate, smoking a cigarette and swinging his feet over the asphalt. Once she absorbs the initial shock, her blood chills with anxiety and she crosses the remaining twenty steps in a rush.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, breathless and frowning.

"And hello to you too," he lifts his eyebrows, confused at the urgent tone.

She shakes her head. "What are you doing here?" she repeats, and frowns harder.

"Well, Luke will have a meltdown if he smells cigarettes in the truck, so this seemed like a better option," he smirks, somewhat uncertainly; the urgency is still there.

"No, I meant why are you _here_?," she clarifies apprehensively. "Did something happen?"

He frowns, confused. "Like what?"

"I don't know, anything" she says exasperatedly, "is something wrong with my Mom, or Luke… was there a fire, did my house burn down… the possibilities are endless," she rolls her eyes, now seriously annoyed with him.

"Whoa, okay, slow down," he says quickly as the dots in his head connect and her behavior begins to make sense. "Nothing happened. As far as I know, everyone's fine and your house is still standing."

She breathes a sigh of relief, and unclenches gradually; with those most pressing concerns out of the way, she now refocuses on his puzzling presence in front of her grandparents' house. Jess watches as her expression relaxes, then furrows in concentration, and feels decidedly guilty for spooking her.

"So, a do-over?" he suggests; she gives him a confused look and he smirks. "Hi," he says pointedly.

She smiles. "Hi," she replies and allows for a brief silence, but gets tired of it quickly. "Okay, again, why are you here?"

"On my way to the movies," he shrugs.

She looks around the quiet, decidedly residential neighborhood. "And you got lost?" she guesses, looking back at him.

"I don't get lost," he informs her with a smirk.

"Of course not," she amends ironically, then raises her eyebrows again. "Well?" she prods after a moment of silence.

"Well what?" Jess counters with a smile.

"Oh, you're not seriously going to make me ask the question again," she rolls her eyes. He smirks wider and she rolls her eyes again. "Or you are. Okay, so there's no emergency and you're not lost… so, what, you're sightseeing? Is there something special on this street that I've missed all the numerous times I've been here?" She frowns at the surrounding houses, looks up and down the street, and shakes her head. "Nope, I'm still not seeing it…"

"Actually, now that you mention it, there is something special about this street," he smirks. "You're here."

"I'm special?" she blurts out, then cringes inwardly; that's not what he said at all.

He laughs. "Okay, you've taken that slightly out of context," he points out casually, thoroughly enjoying the soft tinge of red that creeps into her cheeks.

"Well then, kindly contextualize it for me," she stubbornly holds her own, regardless of the somewhat embarrassing moment.

"I was looking for you," he says simply.

"Why?" she wants to know, predictably.

"They're showing _Jaws_ at the movies, and since big sharks with pointy teeth scare me, I sort of need someone to hold my hand through it," he delivers with a trademark smirk, but queasily registers the fact he's holding his breath; _well, sort of_, he corrects himself quickly, and scans her face for a reaction. She's looking at him with a peculiar expression; she almost seems amused and for one chilling second, he feels like she's seeing right through him, although he'd rather not think about just what it is that he's trying to hide.

"It is a Friday night, you know," she says flippantly. "I could have plans."

"True," he concedes with a smile. "Do you?"

"I could be seeing Dean," she continues innocently, secretly watching for a twitch; it doesn't happen and she immediately resents herself for looking for one at all. _I _should_ be seeing Dean, _she thinks bitterly.

"Are you?" he asks, a strange smile crossing his face.

"Maybe," she says noncommittally, aiming for ambiguity.

He laughs. "You're not seeing Dean," he declares with conviction; she frowns and takes a breath, but he shakes his head, cutting her off: "I'll save you the potential embarrassment of getting caught in a lie and tell you that I actually saw Dean leave town today, so, I'm pretty sure he's not on your agenda tonight," he smirks and watches the defiance melt away from her face. _"_So_, Jaws?"_ he asks casually, sliding off the tailgate.

She mentally debates the issue for a few seconds, dutifully registering all the pros and cons; there are infinitely more cons, but she finds herself dismissing them one by one, and the ease with which she does this startles her. _Maybe I'm over-thinking this_, she thinks weakly; after all, it's Friday and she really has no plans. It's just a movie, so where's the harm, exactly?

"I'm not holding your hand," she warns with a half-smile and folds her arms, unconsciously reasserting the point.

"Okay," he shrugs, smiling, and throws away the cigarette.

They each circle the truck on their respective sides and meet up again in the cabin; in the scarce space, Rory quickly notes butterflies stirring in her stomach and reluctantly questions the wisdom of her decision. Granted, spending the evening at home would have been much less interesting, but infinitely safer, and even though she can't quite pinpoint where exactly the danger lies in this particular situation, she's acutely aware it exists. It might be his driving, she suddenly remembers a handy culprit and concentrates on his speed and maneuvering skills, but finds no apparent flaws.

"So what's the deal with these dinners at your grandparents, anyway? I mean, I get that you're supposed to visit with relatives, but every Friday, at the same time… the whole arrangement somehow seems… formal," he smirks. "Sort of like a dentist's appointment or something."

"Yeah well, at times it does feel like having your teeth pulled out," she sighs, shrugging. "My Mom couldn't afford Chilton, so she asked my grandparents to help. They agreed to do it in exchange for the dinners," she explains.

"Okay… it might just be my twisted mind, but that sort of sounds like… well, a nice word for blackmail escapes me right now," he says simply, and glances in the review mirror as he turns a corner.

She chuckles. "There isn't one, and that's pretty much what it was." He throws her another quizzical look, and she shrugs again. "My Mom hadn't talked to my grandparents for some sixteen years before Chilton came into play, and I guess my grandma wanted to make sure the same thing wouldn't happen again. Hence the dinners."

"Sixteen years?" he repeats, baffled.

Rory nods. "She ran away from home when she was pregnant with me."

"Huh, she wasn't kidding," Jess mutters to himself.

"Who wasn't?" Rory frowns.

"What? Oh, Lorelai," he says absently, pulling into the cinema parking lot; it's Rory's turn for a puzzled glance, and Jess chuckles. "She said some stuff to me at that dinner at your house, something about having done the 'chip on the shoulder bit'. At the time, I thought she was just… well, full of it, but apparently, she wasn't," he concludes, picking a parking space.

Rory starts with a sarcastic response but loses track of it completely when he throws his hand over the back of her seat, freezing still until she figures out it's just a part of a parking maneuver as he backs the truck up between two cars. This realization, however, does little in terms of quelling her hectic heartbeat, and she bolts out of the truck as soon as Jess turns off the engine. _What is wrong with me_, she wonders for the umpteenth time in relation to him, and as usual, no satisfactory answer presents itself.

The fresh air helps, she finds, but they leave it behind much too soon, and the darkness inside the cinema has a completely opposite effect. The trailers are already running and they wander around briefly in search of their seats, squinting in the pale light emanating from the screen. Sitting down, she takes a deep breath, overwhelmingly grateful they're not watching one of those bigger-than-life dramas that have the propensity to make her bawl her eyes out; occasional frightful twitches she can live with. Opening credits flash on the screen, and she wills herself to focus on the movie and not on that place where their arms run side by side, sharing the armrest, but instead she finds herself wondering whether she'd ever really touched him before. She settles on a definite no, beyond certain she'd remember this prickling feeling that simmers along her skin right now. He shifts, and the prickling shifts with him, and she barely has time to brace herself before he leans to her ear.

"Just so you know, you're welcome to grab my hand if the mood strikes you," he whispers, and the hair on the back of her neck stands up on end.

"Don't hold your breath," she whispers back, amazed at her presence of mind.

Figuratively, he won't, but in reality, he does, and for a brief moment he tries to make out what it is that she smells like before he comes to his senses and exhales. _Aw, I did not just smell her hair, _he groans inwardly and rubs his forehead, stupefied and suddenly completely oblivious to the movie. Knowing yourself can be both a blessing and a curse, and in this instance, Jess finds himself quickly leaning toward the curse scenario as a particular truth reveals itself with a dull force of a swinging brick: _I like this girl._ _I like the way she thinks, I like the way she talks, I like that way she drinks her coffee and eats her pancakes, I like her books and the fact she's got so many, I definitely like the way she's put together, but most of all, I like the way she looks at me. I like it all… and typically, I can't have her, because typically again, she's in love with the town prince charming, _he concludes with supreme annoyance._ Or at least she thinks she is, _his mind makes a feeble distinction, but it feels like grasping at straws and he shrugs it off.

The shark devours an unsuspecting swimmer, and the entire audience flinches in unison; Jess doesn't even blink. _I so don't want to like this girl…_

…

"I forgot just how good this movie is," Rory comments two hours later as they make their way back to the truck.

"Or how scary, apparently," Jess smirks at her.

"Well, that one scene slipped my mind," she mutters and wills the heat away from her face, squirming as she recalls hiding her face in the crane of his neck when that decomposing corpse popped out of the shipwreck. It was an impulse, immaterial in itself, but it afforded her another tidal wave of inner mayhem that took twenty minutes to shake off, and she holds Spielberg responsible for that. Sadly, the fact that Jess smelled so good and felt even better can't be pinned on Spielberg by any rational method; neither can the flock of butterflies that spring to life in her stomach at the memory, and she pulls the truck door closed, irked an frustrated.

"I offer you a hand, but you go straight for the neck," he starts the engine, smirking still.

"It was a reflex, so I suggest you restrain any over-active imagination," she deadpans sardonically. "I just don't like decomposing corpses all that much, and that one somehow always springs out of nowhere, even if you know it's coming," she adds with mild fascination.

"Yeah, early Spielberg comes close to a genius in that respect," Jess chuckles in agreement. "Not many movies can pull off that kind of suspense anymore."

"So, they're having a retrospective… I wonder what else they have scheduled," Rory wonders absently.

Jess smirks. "_The Shining_, tomorrow. I didn't look past that."

"Okay, that one really is scary… _Jaws_ looks like a Disney production next to that one," Rory chuckles.

"Oh come on, don't overdo it," Jess shakes his head.

"An evil, mind-altering presence versus a biologically conditioned animal? I somehow find the first scenario infinitely more disturbing," she declares with conviction. "There's a fool-proof way to avoid sharks; they tend to stick to the ocean. Disembodied evil has a much wider area of operation, and doesn't come with an easily recognizable arsenal of pointy teeth."

"You know, I never actually saw _The Shining_," Jess shrugs.

"Really?" she gapes at him. "Wow, that's sort of like saying you're Catholic but have never heard of the Bible," she chuckles. "How could you have missed that?"

"I don't know, I just did," he shrugs with a smirk and makes a left at an intersection, leaving Hartford behind.

"Well, you should rectify that as soon as possible," she declares with a smile. "Tomorrow, even; that's one movie you should see in a cinema if at all possible." He looks at her and she senses the unspoken question, but shakes it off quickly. "I'm not watching _the Shining_ with you."

He shrugs. "I suppose it's just as well; if it really is as scary as you say, I'd probably spend the better part of the movie peeling you off myself anyway," he smirks. "Not that the prospect isn't appealing to some extent, but it would definitely hinder the actual movie watching."

She feels herself blushing again as her brain supplies the visual, complete with the subtle mix of cigarettes and faint after-shave that she will now associate with him for all eternity. "Are you going to keep rubbing my nose in that forever?" she asks exasperatedly.

"No, not forever… but probably as long as it gets a rise out of you," he chuckles.

"What an exhilarating prospect," she deadpans, rolling her eyes.

"Well, you kind of brought it on yourself," he points out innocently.

"It was Spielberg, not me," she defiantly mutters to the window.

"Really? How… convenient," Jess smirks ahead.

Rory stares out of the window stubbornly for a moment and attempts to resent him for mocking her, but can't quite get there; he's really not doing anything she wouldn't do herself if provided with the slightest chance, and she surreptitiously wishes for one, just one chance to make him squirm. She's certain the sight would be priceless, and she chuckles inwardly at the prospect. Maybe, someday…

"Oh yeah," he says suddenly, "I keep forgetting… thanks for the books."

"You're welcome," she replies, then chuckles, shaking her head.

He frowns. "Okay, I'm missing the funny part here," he says blankly.

"It's nothing, just something Luke said," she chuckles again, and he throws her a quizzical look. "He sort of implied you wouldn't really thank me," she elaborates with a smile.

"What am I, a Neanderthal?" He shakes his head. "I'm perfectly capable of saying the words."

"And you did a splendid job of it," she nods solemnly, fighting back a smile. "They didn't even come out strangled or anything."

"Gee, thanks," he clips with mild sarcasm.

"So what did you pick?" she wonders with interest.

"I can't remember the title, it's too long" he frowns at the windshield, "but it's a fairly thin one, big red circle on the cover. Starts with a guy contemplating a woman's abysmal poetry and glorious legs," he smirks.

"Ah, that would be _Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things," _she chuckles. "You're right, the title is long. How do you like it?"

"It's too early to tell," he shrugs. "I barely got through three paragraphs before Luke descended on me. But they were decent paragraphs," he chuckles.

"Well, once you're done with this batch, you can have another," she smiles brightly. "How many of them have you actually read before?"

"You've brought a ton, so it's not really an issue," he smiles back, evasive.

"How many?" she frowns, insisting.

"Probably half, maybe a few more," he shrugs apologetically. "It doesn't really matter though, they're all worth a read-over," he offers when she looks disappointed. "Well, most, anyway," he corrects himself after a moment.

"Yeah well, that doesn't change the fact that I lugged half of them all the way to the diner for no reason," she mumbles dejectedly, then goes back to his last comment. "What do you mean, most?"

"I would have come and got them myself if I'd known," he mumbles, feeling guilty.

"Well, I clearly survived, so it's not a big deal," she brushes off easily, then frowns again. "What do you mean, most?"

"Well, you've got Rand in there," he grimaces," and surviving or not, I wish you didn't further any scolisis on my account."

"One backpack of books will hardly turn me into an invalid," she quips with a chuckle, then switches gears again. "And Rand is a genius."

"Rand is a nut," he declares, "and could we turn this parallel discussion into two separete ones ? Keeping track of the driving, the radio and two different conversations at the same time is kind of a stretch."

"Spoken like a true multi-tasker," she mocks.

"Here's a crazy idea," he suggests, ignoring the provocation,"how about we discuss the book delivery first, and argue about Rand later?"

"There's nothing to discuss," she chuckles. "You wanted books, and I have tons. I picked a few, packed them up, brought them over, left them on the floor next to your unconscious form. You found them, said thank you. Case closed," she shrugs.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" he wants to know, but Rory's determined to steer clear of that line of questioning because it opens a whole other set of issues in her head.

"Why would I?" she asks innocently.

"Well, for one thing, Luke asked you to," he shrugs.

"Did he? Huh, I guess I missed that," she quips quickly. "Can we move on to Rand now?"

"Oh, right, the nut," he chuckles.

"The genius," she corrects sternly, "although the concepts are not mutually exclusive."

"Yeah, I'm still going to go with the nut bit," he smirks.

"Okay, but you know, that just tells me you never read her," Rory says flatly.

"I suffered through an opening chapter of something, then gave up," he informs her casually.

"You can't judge someone's entire opus on an opening chapter of a book you don't even remember the title of," she argues, appalled.

"Ordinarily, I'd agree, but in this instance, the first few pages were a powerful deterrent," he chuckles.

She gapes at him in disbelief for a moment, then shakes her head. "Well, you're missing out on some great stuff, and you'll keep on missing a lot more if you don't stop making snap judgments like that."

"I'm rarely wrong," he smirks.

"You were wrong about my Mom," she points out quickly, rolling her eyes.

"I said rarely, not never," he smiles and turns into Stars Hollow, its streets deserted and completely devoid of activity. "Jesus, this place is depressing," he mutters to himself. "I mean, it's boring in daytime, but at night it's… well, dead. The silence is mind-numbing."

"You miss New York?" she asks sympathetically.

"I miss its pulse," he shrugs. "Over there, you can see something you've never seen before on every corner, provided you know how to look."

His last comment strikes a chord somewhere within, and she smiles and sits up suddenly, pointing out of the window. "Turn here," she says resolutely; the tone allows for no objections and he just steers as ordered.

"Where are we going?" he asks, curious.

"I want to show you something," she says with a smile. "Turn right at the end of the street."

He does; several more turns follow until they eventually start up a forested hill, and asphalt gives way to dirt.

"A back-road, great," Jess draws out. "Luke would love this."

"It's a truck," Rory points out dryly.

"Yeah, and that's a ditch," Jess nods out of the window, "and Luke had some very specific instructions on avoiding those."

"So, avoid them," she chuckles.

He mutters something incoherent and concentrates on precisely that, carefully maneuvering a few more uphill turns until they reach a clearing.

"Okay, now back up a little to the side here," she instructs again, looking out.

He glances into the review mirror and frowns. "Where am I backing up to, exactly? Off of a cliff? There's nothing there!"

She rolls her eyes. "Just trust me and back up a little, okay? I'm not suicidal and I've been here a thousand times."

He shrugs and shifts into reverse; she cranes her neck and checks their position. "Okay, we're good," she chirps happily and jumps out of the truck. He pulls on his jacket and follows. He finds her folding down the tailgate and watches her settle there, her feet dangling over the dirt.

"Okay, if you're planning a make-out session, I'd be happier _inside_ the truck," he smirks, searching his pocket for cigarettes.

She bestows him with a look of mild frustration, then points over his shoulder. "Look."

He turns around; the clearing drops off some twenty steps ahead, and affords a startling few of Stars Hollow in the valley bellow, sparkling in the darkness. The scene is pretty enough, but no more remarkable than any others like it; every town has one, and on a Friday night, they're usually crawling with parked cars packed with couples. Suddenly a disturbing thought strikes and he cringes.

"Is this your and Dean's little love nest? I'd hate to desecrate such a sacred shrine," he says sardonically, wishing he'd never set foot here.

"No," she blushes. "We only came up here once, and I brought him here for the same reason as you."

"And that would be…?" he trails off quizzically.

"Look," she points behind him again.

"I looked. There's lights," he shrugs, unimpressed.

"You glanced, then moved on to wisecracks," she corrects him, and points to the lights again.

He sighs, and turns his eyes to the valley, although he'd much rather look at her. "Okay, still lights," he declares after a minute. "I hate to ruin the moment, but I'm pretty sure I'll still be seeing lights no matter how long I stare at them, barring a sudden electricity shortage."

"Yes, they're lights," she rolls her eyes. "Now stop being so hopelessly literal and look at the bigger picture," she sighs exasperatedly. "You know, step out of the box, experiment, let your mind wonder…"

"Are you sure I don't need drugs for this?" he asks with a smirk, glancing at her; she frowns and he obediently looks back to the lights. Clearly, this is important to her, and even though he thinks it's ridiculous, he makes and effort and relaxes his eyes, attempting to look past the obvious. Forms blur a little, then melt into soft, hazy shapes; after a few seconds, the shapes connect into a vaguely familiar pattern. He looks closer, and like in a kaleidoscope, the lights weave together, and his mouth drops open.

"Huh," he says incredulously. "It's a turtle."

Her head spins. "You actually see it?" she gawks at him.

"Yeah," he chuckles, amazed, then looks back with a frown. "What, you don't?"

"No, I do," she nods quickly, a strange expression on her face.

"Well, isn't that what you brought me up here to see?" he asks, confused.

"It is," she nods again, her expression unchanged. "It's just… I can't believe you made it out on your own. Aside from my Mom and me, no one's ever been able to make it out unless I pointed it out to them. Not my dad, not Lane, not Dean… no one," she explains, completely baffled.

"It's incredible," he admits plainly, looking back at the valley; her head spinning, she can't help feeling he's breached some sort of her inner circle way too easily. Weirdly transfixed, she examines his face , and suddenly, out of nowhere, that unique expression she witnessed when she watched him sleep sneaks into his features, that unguarded look of pure joy, and she has no trouble defining it once it reflects in his eyes. He gazes into the lights, eyes half closed and lips slightly parted in an absent-minded ghost of a smirk, and she suddenly feels an unmistakable, irresistible urge to kiss him. In that fleeting moment, nothing in the world seems to matter except this crazy urge to find out what he tastes like; just for a minute, or a second even, just once, just to see how it would feel. Maybe if she just found out what it's like, this crazy craving would go away and everything would return to normal.

"A penny for your thoughts," his voice snaps her back to reality; she blushes furiously and shifts her gaze to the lights.

"You know how computer programs have that nifty little 'undo' button?" she asks softly. "You're free to try anything, and if it works – great, you just leave it be. If it blows up in your face, however, you just hit 'undo' and poof! – it's gone, erased, like it never happened… I'd trade a kidney for that option in life," she sighs longingly.

"What, you're itching to attempt flying into the lights?" he smirks, but examines her face carefully, instinctively aware of something bigger happening behind the scenes.

She makes no comment and the silence stretches until the church bell breaks it, chiming midnight; the soft echo floats up from the valley, distant and slightly distorted. "It's late," she says, sliding of the tailgate. "We should go."

He wants to mock her for describing midnight as late, but something in her face makes him swallow the remark and he just follows her back into the truck. The drive into town goes by in silence: she stares out the window and wrings her hands together, and he employs every wit to isolate the cause of the sudden shift in her mood. Somehow, everything points to an inner struggle of some sort, and since she's not letting him anywhere near it, he briefly skims over the possibility it's actually somehow related to him, as unlikely as the theory sounds. It's a stretch, but in the interest of being thorough, he figures he should check it out nonetheless.

"So, this 'undo' thing of yours," he starts as he pulls into her driveway, "would it apply to you as well as other people?"

"What do you mean?" she frowns, not understanding.

"Okay, in the interest of clarity, lets dispense with the abstractions," he smirks. "For instance, I want to club Taylor over the head. I club him, and, courtesy of the magical undo, Taylor doesn't remember being clubbed, right?

She nods.

"Okay, but do I remember clubbing Taylor?" he chuckles.

"Well, yeah," she frowns. "There'd be no point to it otherwise."

"Okay, so basically, the thing spares you the consequences of your actions in terms of other people, but lets you retain the memory of them? Huh," he shrugs, "yeah, I can see how that would come in handy," he chuckles, then frowns. "Although, theoretically, you could achieve the same result without it."

He's got her full attention now. "What, like hypnosis or something?" she chuckles.

He laughs. "No, more like an agreement." She looks at him blankly, and he puts together the next few sentences very carefully. "Okay, hypothetically, let's say you and I… " (right on cue, her eyes widen) "…rob a bank. But, before we rob the bank, we agree never to talk about having robbed it. And we rob the bank – just for the sake of robbing it. We just… want to," he says casually, but watches her closely. "If we both stick to the agreement and never mention the fact again, in effect, it's like it never happened."

Her eyes lock with his, but she says nothing; she doesn't really have to, he can tell he got his point across, subtext included. He's given her a magical 'undo' button, and even though he's not entirely certain that it's the one she had in mind, he decided to hand it over nonetheless, just in the remote case it is the right one. It's up to her to decide what to do with it.

After a long minute, it turns out it's either not the right one, or she doesn't want to use it, because she just smiles a small smile and gets out of the truck, waving a silent goodbye as she disappears into the house. _Well, it was worth a shot_, he thinks gloomily, and pulls out of the driveway.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	9. Of Projects, Sex and Madness

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Over 100 reviews, you guys are awesome :o) Thank you all for feeding my addiction ;o)

* * *

**08. Of Projects, Sex and Madness  
**

2.21am  
Within an hour of tossing and turning, Rory admits that sleep is out of the question. She'd never been more awake in her entire life; ironically, she also never wanted to be asleep more than she wants to be right now. The divine state of unconsciousness, completely devoid of any thoughts or feelings, sounds just blissful, but unfortunately, no such luck. She's awake, the thoughts are here, feelings too, and chaos rules supreme as she stares into the ceiling, eyes wide open.

She needs to talk to someone. She needs to talk to Lorelai, and yet Lorelai is the one person she can't talk to about this. _In that case_, _I need a project_, she thinks hopelessly, _and some music._

Untangling herself from the blankets she wanders over to the cds, and pulls out a box-full labeled _Lane_. She smiles, remembering the origins of this compilation; there are no band or song listings on the cases, just moods. She glances at the first one – _Deliriously Happy._ Definitely not, and she shoves it aside. Next – _Heartbreak hotel; oh God, I hope not, _she recoils, and passes that one up as well. _Dazed and Confused; _that sounds about right, and she loads it into the player and cranks up the volume, hoping Babette and Murray aren't light sleepers.

_I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed,  
oh God, it feels like forever, but no one ever tells you  
that forever feels like home, sitting all alone inside your head…_

3.16 am  
There are too many bands whose names start with 'm', she determines with a yawn and gives up on alphabetizing the scattered mass of cds.

Coffee becomes an appealing idea, and she wanders into the kitchen and starts some, absentmindedly watching it drip into the cup as she hesitantly tries to make some sense, _any sense_, of anything and everything that happened since she walked out of her grandparents' house. The effort miserably fails, the chaos in her head just evades all attempts of organization or analysis. _I need a flowchart_, she thinks desperately as she takes the coffee over to the kitchen table and settles next to it, her face buried in her hands.

Where to start? The ongoing, never-ceasing butterflies in her stomach? The turtle? The crazy impulse to kiss him? The fact that he recognized it? Her stomach jolts at this, and she lets her forehead rest against the table and wraps her arms over her head. _Oh God, he recognized it, _she moans inwardly; not only recognized it, but basically gave her a free-pass to go for it, along with more or less a promise they'd never have to revisit the issue. She still has no idea how exactly she managed to get out of that truck and walk away, because in her head, she was actually lunging across the seat, reaching for him.

_How do you feel? That is the question,  
but I forget.. you don't expect an easy answer  
when something like a soul becomes initialized and folded up like paper dolls and little notes,  
you can't expect a bit of hope  
So while you're outside looking in, describing what you see  
Remember what you're staring at is me…_

4.39am  
Sprawled on the floor in Lorelai's room, she meticulously paints every toenail a different color.

She'd cheated tonight; for the first time in her life, she had cheated, regardless of the fact it didn't actually happen; she'd done it mentally, several times over, long before she even knew she could. Okay, technically, she's sort of done it before, she'd kissed Tristan, but compared to the sheer force of tonight's emotional and physical chaos, that kiss was so meaningless that it can barely be considered a kiss at all. No, whatever it was that happened to her tonight doesn't stand any comparison to anything else, and the fact that nothing _really_ happened at all, curiously, somehow makes everything so much worse.

She suddenly remembers Dean, and immediately hates herself. He doesn't deserve this, he doesn't deserve even this mental level of disloyalty. He's been the perfect boyfriend in every imaginable respect and she can't fault him for anything, and yet, even the heaviest make-out sessions with him have never produced feelings that come anywhere close to what she felt when she watched Jess stare down at the valley tonight… and he was ten steps away at the time.

_I wish I'd kissed him, _she admits reluctantly, instantly wanting to bang her head against the nightstand. She shouldn't harbor this particular wish, but she can't help it, it's there. Why it's there, where it comes from, what to do with it, she has no idea.

_How much is real? So much to question,  
an epidemic of the mannequins, contaminating everything  
When thought came from the heart, it never did right from the start  
Just listen to the noises, null and void instead of voices  
Before you tell yourself it's just a different scene  
Remember it's just different from what you've seen..._

5.45am  
Water slowly drains from the bathtub, and she fiercely brushes her still damp hair, as if every strand has done her a great personal wrong.

The turtle… she can't even begin to make sense of him seeing the turtle. Once, a long time ago, the turtle was supposed to be the ultimate test, a sign from the universe… When she was little, and love was still an abstract, faraway thing that she imagined would resemble the Cinderella story in reverse, she fantasized she'd recognize her prince charming among a thousand others because he'd be able to see this turtle that escaped everyone else. She got older and outgrew the fantasy; the turtle became just another peculiar quirk she shared with Lorelai , and the idea that anyone else might see it vanished around the same time her pig-tails did. She would have staked her life on the fact Jess would be oblivious to it until she pointed it out, light after flickering light, as she did with everyone else. And yet, he just caught it, easily, on the first try, and even though she rationally knows that attaching any cosmic meaning to the fact would be beyond ludicrous, there are still traces of the girl with pig-tails somewhere within, and she's grinning, grinning widely.

_I'm not making any sense, _she whimpers to herself, _none of this makes any sense_… She needs things to make sense. She needs her life to be ordered and organized, she doesn't know how to function in this chaos. She wants it to end. She glances at the clock… still too early to call.

_I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed  
And all I know is that it feels like forever, when no one ever tells you  
that forever feels like home, sitting all alone inside your head..._

9.00am  
She jerks her head up from the kitchen table at some distant, indistinguishable sound, and looks around, disoriented. Sleep crept up on her out of nowhere, and since kitchen chairs are not generally known for a high level of comfort, every bone in her body aches. Yawning, she rubs her eyes and glances at the clock; her heart jumps at the decent hour it shows and she instantly springs to her feet and goes looking for her cell phone. She checks her room, then the kitchen, living-room, hallway... no phone. No bag that the phone's supposed to be in, either. She re-checks all the rooms again, bathroom and Lorelai's bedroom included. Still nothing. She's half-way out of her wits when reason catches up with her, suggesting Luke's truck as the next most probable location. It figures she left it behind, actually, considering just how fast she bolted out of there.

Giving up on the cell phone and the bag for the immediate future, she goes for the house phone, dialing quickly.

"Hey," Lane chirps on the other end, "you're up early."

"Can you come over?" Rory finally blurts out the words she's been waiting to say for hours. "Right now?"

"Are you okay?" Lane asks, her tone drifting towards anxiety.

Rory leans her forehead against the window. "No," she says simply, then remembers something. "Hey, could you stop by Luke's and pick up my bag?"

Even though the request probably sounds weird to her, Lane doesn't ask for explanations. "Sure, I'll be there in a sec," she promises, and the line goes dead.

Rory listens to the dull beeping tone for a moment before she moves away from the window and throws the phone on the sofa. Stretching, she wanders to the bathroom; faced with a mirror, she discovers a vague fish imprint on her cheek, courtesy of the table-mat that unwillingly served as her pillow. She shakes her head exasperatedly and brushes her teeth, then washes her face and looks up. The fish is still there. She couldn't care less and she moves to the hallway and settles on the stairs, absently pulling on stray threads that stick out from her pajamas, her eyes fixed on the front door.

An indefinite amount of time passes - from Rory's perspective, it feels like a small eternity, but finally a distorted shape appears behind the glass. She lunges from the stairs and pulls the door open.

"Hey," Jess says after a shocked moment of silence. "I didn't think you'd be up yet, I thought I'd hang this on the doorknob," he explains, motioning to the bag in his hand. "What's with the fish-face?" he adds, smirking.

For a hectic heartbeat, she just stares at him, transfixed, flustered, out of breath, and curbing a delirious impulse to laugh hysterically; with the next one, she's kissing him with a hunger she had no idea she was capable of feeling. In the first breath, she's alone in this, and feels like she's attached her lips do a statue, but he catches up with her quickly - the bag falls to the floor, forgotten, and his arms close around her, one gripping her around the waist, the other sneaking up into her hair to gently cradle her head, tilting it slightly in search for a better angle. It's overwhelming and all-consuming, this kiss, it's completely incomparable to any others because it seems to happen everywhere, it somehow reaches every nerve and fiber, and nothing within her remains untouched by it. In itself, it produces enough energy to power Stars Hollow at Christmas, and instead of winding down, the heat it creates just seems to multiply exponentially with every strangled breath they somehow manage to sneak into it. Her mind spins completely out of reach of any reason or rationale, and what started out as an embrace quickly turns into clinging for dear life because she swiftly loses any awareness of her legs in this crazy chaos of feelings that streak all over. Suddenly, it feels like she's falling, sinking fast into an indescribable, fascinating abyss of incredible sensations, but an abyss anyway… panic strikes with a vengeance and she pulls away in an abrupt, breathless jolt.

A moment of frozen silence ensues on both ends as eyes lock together, one set displaying sheer freight mixed with guilt, the other genuine shock and confusion.

"What the hell just happened?" Jess finds his voice first, the shock and confusion apparently fading faster than panic.

"We robbed a bank," Rory shoots out instantly, eyes darting wildly in every conceivable direction, one exception being his face; with immeasurable relief, she finds her escape with the bag at her feet and crouches in a flash, wishing he would evaporate into another dimension and never be heard from again.

Not having yet mastered teleportation, Jess stays where he is, although mentally, he also finds the whole vanishing scenario more than appealing, uncertain just how well he'll be able to pull off the mandatory cool and casual routine in this particular situation, given the fact that everything inside him has irreversibly turned upside down and inside out in the last few moments, on every conceivable level. Some of it there's a quick, effective fix for, and he suddenly appreciates anew the existence of baggy pants and cold showers, but on the whole, this is a minor issue, barely worth recognizing in between all the other, infinitely more important ones - for instance, this intense feeling of overwhelming dread that rises at the thought that this might have been a one-time thing, an isolated incident that will now haunt him forever but never be repeated again. And that's not even the worst part – the worst part is actually the fact that he single-handedly engineered the whole scenario with that ridiculous bank robbing story, which now effectively ties his hands as far as directly calling her out on everything that just happened goes.

Groaning inwardly, he refocuses on her, and quickly concludes that it's either taking her forever to gather the few items that scattered from her bag, or life has in general suddenly shifted into excruciatingly slow motion. The latter is unlikely, and he suddenly figures out she's hiding, and easily decides to let her.

"I should go," he says simply, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Okay," she nods to the floorboards, hoping her voice doesn't sound as strangled to him as it does inside her head; the porch creaks softly as he walks away, and she steals another quick glance at his retreating form before she grabs the bag and leaps into the house.

With the door safely closed, she drops the bag on the floor again and leans against the wall, completely drained; within a moment, she slides to the floor, buries her face between her knees and folds her arms over her head. The anti-climax is so powerful that it wouldn't really surprise her if she just fell asleep, but even though her head is blissfully empty, her heart still races and breath comes in much shorter than it normally does. In the next second, it catches completely as she hears the doorknob turn and looks up in a panic.

"I'm here, where's the fire?" Lane calls out urgently as she pushes the door open; her eyes dart around the hallway a few times before they settle on Rory. "Why are you on the floor?"

"I kissed Jess," Rory croaks out hopelessly.

"What?" Lane's eyes pop out of her head.

"Okay, please don't make me say that again," Rory moans desperately.

"You kissed Jess?" Lane repeats, closing the door.

"Oh God, it sounds even worse when you say it," Rory cringes, and hides her face again.

Lane shakes her head incredulously. "Why would you kiss Jess? I mean, I don't mean that in a Jess-is-unkissable sort of way, just generally, you know – why did you do it?"

"I have no idea," Rory looks at her desperately. "I can't explain it on any level of reason."

"Okay, how about on a not-so-reasonable level?" Lane asks, catching the distinction with a disconcerting level of insight.

"I just… wanted to. Badly. Like, so badly it borders on… insanity," Rory admits reluctantly, to herself as much as to Lane.

Lane swallows a stray smile. "And?"

"And what?" Rory looks at her blankly.

"And, what was it like?" Lane rolls her eyes.

_Okay, how do I even begin to describe that? _Rory wonders wildly."Sex," she blurts out suddenly, and literally can't believe the word came out of her mouth once she hears it.

"What?" Lane squeals, dropping to the floor next to her.

"Well, I don't really have a frame of reference, but I'm thinking, to an extent, that's what it must feel like," Rory explains exasperatedly.

"Holy crap," Lane shakes her head. "What did that guy do to you?"

"Nothing," Rory blushes, "it was just a kiss, there wasn't even any-"

"I meant that figuratively," Lane cuts her off, "I'll do without the frame-by-frame, thanks."

"I'm a horrible, horrible person," Rory declares flatly.

Sighing, Lane settles next to her and stretches out her legs. "Well, if kissing is an indication, the world is swarming with horrible people."

"I have a boyfriend," Rory points out desperately.

Lane frowns. "Oh, right. I forgot about that for a moment."

"Yeah well, you're allowed to," Rory retorts dully.

"You know, it doesn't really have to mean anything," Lane offers after a short silence.

Rory glances at her, confused. "Which part? The fact that I have a boyfriend, or the fact I kissed another guy?"

"Well, no, clearly the fact that you have a boyfriend means something," Lane sighs, "but maybe this Jess thing was just… a temporary madness," she shrugs. "It happens, apparently; maybe you just did it out of curiosity or whatever, and now that it's out of your system, it's over."

"I seriously doubt Dean would see it that way," Rory mutters to her knees.

"Are you breaking up with Dean over this?" Lane frowns.

"I really don't think it will be a matter of whether _I_ break up with _him_," Rory says hopelessly.

"Well, no, not if you tell him about the whole sex-like kiss thing," Lane concedes. "But if it didn't mean anything, then you could just… not tell him," she shrugs, and glances at Rory; she just stares at the floor at says nothing. "What about Jess? What does he think?" Lane continues, frowning. "I mean, if there's a chance he'll run to Dean with this, then the whole not telling Dean scenario is definitely not an option."

"He won't," Rory shakes her head.

"Okay, so that's a silver lining," Lane nods. "What about some passive-aggressive scenario where he drives you crazy by dropping subtle but annoying little hints about it whenever you see him?" Rory gives her a strange look, but Lane just shrugs. "Well, he's just seems like the type."

A small smile escapes Rory, and she shakes her head. "He won't mention it. Ever."

"You're almost too sure of that," Lane frowns. "Did you get in writing or something?"

"No," Rory can't help a chuckle, "but I got sort of an indirect promise."

"Okay, that temporary madness I mentioned earlier sounds less and less convincing," Lane warns. "I'm now beginning to lean toward the pre-meditated kiss scenario."

"What? No, I didn't plan to kiss him!" Rory shakes her head. "And could you lay off the homicide analogies? They're seriously creeping me out," she adds pleadingly.

"Okay, so then you're telling me it was a meaningless, spur of the moment thing?" Lane asks innocently.

Covertly, Rory wishes Lane could have left out the 'meaningless' determination, because without it, it would be so much easier to nod yes to this particular question. Somehow, whatever that kiss was, she can't help feeling it wasn't meaningless, but deciphering the actual meaning behind it is at this moment an impossible mission. However, the reasoning behind the question has merit – is this impossible chaos worth destroying over a year long relationship over? And for what, exactly? Some crazy, vague craving that she can't explain? A guy that she really doesn't even know (right on cue, Lorelai's smirking ghost appears in her head at this one!), a guy that she, to be completely honest with herself, doesn't really trust? On his end, all of this might have simply been a joke, a casual little experiment designed to kill some time in an otherwise dull town that he can't wait to get out of anyway. _Not really a character to take such a gigantic leap of faith on_, she concludes sadly.

"Yeah, definitely spur of the moment," she says quietly, elegantly skipping the meaningless part, and hoping eventually she'll convince herself that what she just said really is true.

* * *

_Song used: Through The Glass, Stone Sour (awesome song, btw!)_

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	10. Of Kisses, Chemistry and Cripples

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**09. Of Kisses, Chemistry and Cripples**

"Okay, so what's with the face?" Luke finally caves in after two days of dodging the stone expression and increased hostility.

"Gee, I'm glad you mentioned that, I was worried I'd hurt your feelings if I brought it up," Jess draws out, then takes _White Riot_ down a notch and peers up at Luke from the bed. "I don't really know, but I think your nose might be the main issue. It's kind of crooked," he frowns in contemplation.

Luke stares at him, speechless for a moment, then brushes the comment aside and shakes his head. "No, not my face, genius," he says pointedly. "Your face. You know, this moping, sullen expression you've adopted lately. I've seen those on Mexican soap-operas, you should think about auditioning."

Jess rolls his eyes, and returns to staring at the ceiling. Luke pulls a chair next to his bed and straddles it.

"Oh, yeah, and the silent staring into space bit," Luke nods appreciatively. "Another fascinating development. You know, yesterday, once I was done with the desk and the sideboard, I had this weird compulsion to dust you off and give you a good polish. I just barely caught myself. This chair I'm sitting on has moved more than you in the last two days."

Jess cranks up the volume again. Luke leans over and unplugs the stereo. Jess gives him a murderous look, jumps up from the bed, grabs his jacket and marches out of the apartment, door slamming behind him.

"Oh good, you still know how to walk," Luke yells after him, shaking his head.

The words follow Jess down the stairs, chasing him out into the dark street, and even when he's out of earshot, they still echo in his head. Luke's right, of course – he really has been in a foul mood. The fact that Luke noticed this does little to improve his general disposition; he had no idea he'd advertised it for the whole world to see. By some small mercy, though, the whole world doesn't include Rory – apparently, she's been giving the diner a wide berth for as long as he'd been wearing this - _how did Luke put it? Sullen expression? Sullen?_... Even the word sounds idiotic. He shakes his head and cuts through the park.

He hasn't seen her since the Kiss, and even though the word shouldn't be capitalized in this context, it shows up such in his head, generously adding another item to a fast-growing list of annoyances. This is not what was supposed to happen, that Kiss was not supposed to be one that deserves capitalization, or any other form of distinction from all other kisses in his life. It wasn't supposed to instill this bizarre craving for more; if anything, it was supposed to satisfy curiosity and get this ridiculous fascination with her out of his system. _Well, the best laid plans,_ he thinks grudgingly and kicks a stray stone off the bridge.

He doesn't want to see her, he concludes with surprising certainty as he emerges from the park; in fact, it would be ideal if she just vanished from town altogether until he clears his head and gets rid of this definitely unexpected and absolutely unwelcome mess of feelings that has sprouted into existence with that Kiss. She wasn't supposed to kiss like that, this sweet and naive girl definitely wasn't supposed to make his toes curl and heart race, she wasn't supposed to feel so good and send those blazing little jolts rushing under his skin. _Well, some of it was there before the Kiss, _his mind offers innocently and obligingly follows up with a flashback of the hair-smelling incident. He kicks another stone and walks faster.

_Jesus, I so don't need this right now,_ he thinks for a hundredth time since Saturday morning, reverently cursing the ingenious bank robbery idea, remembering again with exquisite irony that it was his own brainchild that landed him in this particular mess. If he hadn't set up the stage, there would have been no Kiss, and consequently, no mess… well, at least no mess of this scale. Undo-button, what a brilliant idea_… Well, you might have provided the opening, but she's actually the one who stepped through_, his mind sounds again, and this time, the insight throws him off-balance on two levels – first, it surprisingly voices a perspective that is actually welcome, and two – said perspective has merit, because that Kiss – it was actually all her. He was really just there to drop off a bag.

The fact that it took him two whole days to figure this out makes him seriously question his intelligence for a moment; _even Luke would have connected the dots on this one sooner,_ he thinks absently as he rounds a random corner. However, the powers that be have apparently been having a somewhat dull evening and to ensure some light entertainment, have chosen to have Rory round the same corner from the opposite direction in this particular moment in time. Predictably, a monumental crash ensues, scattering a thick stack of notes all over the pavement, closely followed by somewhat incoherent yet decidedly angry yelps which abruptly subside into a moment of awkward silence when both unsuspecting victims find their bearings again and look up into the person they're sure they least want to see.

"Oh," says Rory.

"Huh," says Jess.

Her face drains of color; his eyebrows knit together. The silence gets louder and more awkward.

"Hi," she finally finds the appropriate word, but also finds this is as far as her vocabulary stretches at this particular moment. It might be due to the temporary brain-freeze, or simple physical inability to get any words past the heart that is suddenly firmly lodged in her throat.

"Hey," he nods, abruptly remembering the sullen expression and wondering if it's still there; a swift self-search reveals a frown and he gets rid of it in a rush.

Another seemingly endless beat of silence; the wind mercifully ends it when it playfully sends a few scattered papers softly into the air and down the street. The reality check is a god-send, and they both give into the paper chasing with almost religious dedication. The number of papers is finite, however, and soon they're facing each other again, slightly breathless for the effort, but somewhat less discombobulated, having stolen a few minutes to adjust to the sudden shift in energy around them.

"What's all this, anyway?" Jess asks as he hands her his stack; they're both painfully careful to stay at their respective ends of the papers as they change hands.

"Chemistry," Rory says, straining to shove the paper mass back into the binder.

"How fitting," he mutters to himself, smirking, then quickly moves on. "Why are you walking an encyclopedia of chemistry notes around town at ten o'clock at night?"

"I was at Lane's, she needed some help for school," she explains and releases a sigh of relief when the binder finally closes. "You?"

"Just… roaming," he shrugs.

She looks around. "And this is where you choose to roam?"

"I don't think you understand the concept," he smirks. "There's really no conscious choice or decision making involved in the process."

"Right, my mistake," she smiles, and is amazed that it comes so easy.

He smirks, and debates the next question for a second, but ultimately decides it's not a breach of contract. "So, it's been a while. Where have you been hiding all weekend?"

"Oh, I've just been… busy," she shrugs, deciding to ignore the implications of the 'hiding' bit.

"With Dean?" he inquires casually.

"No, school," she replies, matching his tone. "Dean's in Chicago for another week."

Jess makes no comment, but makes a mental note of this piece of information, and slowly starts down the street. Another mental note goes to the fact that she changes her pre-crash direction and follows.

"Why are you so interested in Dean, anyway?" she challenges after a few steps, glancing sideways.

"Oh you know, I miss his big head in class. It blocks out the teacher," he smirks. "He also packs one mean bag of groceries, and I happen to like my cans stacked just so."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine, don't answer me."

"I did answer you," he smirks wider.

She shakes her head. "No, you didn't. You evaded the answer and fed me a line of crap instead."

"So I lied?" he lifts his eyebrows.

"Well, you fibbed, if nothing else," she shrugs with a small smile.

"Okay, so then you think there's a different answer to your question that I'm not giving you?" he challenges casually.

"Yeah, pretty much, but then again, that's true for most your answers," she chuckles.

"Okay, fine," he shrugs. "What is it?"

"What's what?" she asks, suddenly squirming.

"This answer I'm not giving you," he smirks. "What is it you think I'm not saying?"

She'd waltzed straight into this one, and maneuvering out of it now poses a significant challenge. "How should I know?" she shrugs, aiming for a disinterested tone.

"You must have some alternative in mind, since you've apparently decided I was… fibbing, was it?" he chuckles.

"Well, I actually don't," she quips swiftly.

He smirks. "You don't," he repeats, "but you do know I was fibbing?"

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Just forget it."

"Oh no," he laughs, shaking his head. "You can't un-ring that bell. That wasn't part of the deal."

She skips a breath at the deal reference, and suddenly feels the imprint his hand left on her back so vividly that it's almost like it's there again, all the vicious heat included. "How about you just tell me what you want to hear, so we can get this over with?" she asks exasperatedly, and casually steps sideways, putting some more distance between them.

"I'll go for the truth," he smirks, "or you know, your version of it."

"Fine. My version of the truth is simply that I find it hard to believe that you miss either my boyfriend's head or his grocery packing abilities," she cuts off ironically, "but as far as your potential ulterior motives go, I really haven't given them any thought."

"Ouch," he cringes, "that left a bruise."

"Sorry," she shrugs.

"No, you're not," he smirks.

"Yeah, I'm not," she smiles despite herself. "But you had it coming. Somehow, even the simplest conversation with you instantly turns into a battle, so there's bound to be casualties."

"Well, sparks are definitely flying," he chuckles in agreement, and lifts his eyebrows over an innocent expression at the reproachful look she throws him. "What? It's just chemistry," he points out casually, determined to ignore the annoying new rhythm his heart switches to.

"You're delusional," she declares with conviction, painfully aware that the blush she feels creeping into her cheeks wildly contradicts the statement.

"Right, I'm the delusional one," he smirks, shaking his head, and leads into the park.

"Presumptuous too," she adds, following absently, wondering why it's so utterly impossible to fight this insane compulsion to find out where this conversation ends, even though she knows she'll probably regret it once they get to that point. Lost in her inner debate, she loses track of him for a moment, until she suddenly feels alone and turns back to find him sitting down on the bridge. "What are you doing?" she asks, bewildered.

"Okay, the answer to that is just too simple to take the question literally," he chuckles, searching for cigarettes, "so I'll ask for a minute until I figure out the deeper meaning."

She steps closer. "It's cold, you're insane."

"It's not that cold," he smirks, "but I'll let you have the insane bit."

"There are icicles hanging off roofs," she points out ironically. "That constitutes cold."

"Well, there's no icicles here," he shrugs, nodding towards the bridge. "Will you just sit? If I keep craning my head like this, my neck will spasm, and a massage from Luke is really not an appealing prospect."

"I'm not sitting on the ground in the middle of winter," she declines categorically.

"That binder is so thick it's practically a chair in its own right," he points out reasonably. "I'm sure it won't mind if you temporarily re-classify it."

She holds the binder closer to her chest. "Or, I could take it home and sit on an actual chair in my lovely, heated house."

"You could," he smirks, "but where's the fun in that?"

_Just roll your eyes and walk away_, her mind instructs rationally_ -come on, one eye-roll, it's not that hard -_ but it quickly becomes apparent that there's a different force in control of her body because she finds herself settling on top of the binder anyway while the oh-so reasonable and distinctly opposite course of action still floats around her head. On his part, Jess makes a Herculean effort to withhold a gigantic grin, but the brief excursion into self-satisfaction ends abruptly when the soft light reflecting off the water casts a subtle glow on her face. Suddenly, he's silently wondering what would happen if he kissed her again, would there be the same chaos of senses, the same subtle combination of sincerity and fervor in her that has had him replaying the scene in his head all weekend, the same unique thrill that can't really compare to anything he's felt before. Would it be the same Kiss? _Jesus, I have to stop capitalizing the stupid thing,_ he mentally kicks himself and tries to remember what they were talking about before the whole sitting down process began.

"Anyway, I think perceptive is the word you were looking for," he says through a half-smile; she frowns at him, confused. "As opposed to presumptuous," he points out helpfully, and lights a cigarette.

A quick mental replay – sparks flying, chemistry thing – and she's back on track. "Oh no, I'm sticking with presumptuous," she reiterates with conviction. "As in, you're presuming something that's actually not present."

"Really," he grins freely this time, almost giddy with anticipation. "Like what?"

"Well, chemistry," she delivers victoriously, unable to hold back a smug look, inwardly reveling in this unexpected little victory; he'd said the word, and for a change, it's her turn to watch him squirm.

"Oh, but there is chemistry," he chuckles, no indication of squirming whatsoever; she frowns, and he grins again, and makes the smallest nod toward the ground. "I mean, you're sitting on a binder-full, aren't you?"

Her face blanks and her eyes widen; the unmistakable tinge of red spreads across her cheeks as she looks down and hides her face behind a curtain of hair. Simultaneously, the weirdest thing happens to the always cool and aloof New York cynic – he gets no satisfaction out of any of it. Instead, there's a distinct feeling of guilt, a strange sense he'd stolen something from her, and an intense compulsion to apologize for it, all mentioned being new and previously not experienced emotions he hasn't the vaguest idea what to do with. Guilt is something that used to be easily dismissed, stealing was just for fun, and apologies he usually choked on even while they were still on the mental level, not to mention actually getting them out. The habitual response to successfully embarrassing someone has always been laughing at them, not wanting to cradle them and apologize, maybe kiss the top of their head…

Instinctively, he reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing her face; the blush is gone but she looks at him with a trace of panic in her eyes.

"Luke says I'm an emotional cripple," he says reluctantly, pushing the rest of the hair over her shoulder.

"Yeah, so I heard," she nods solemnly.

He shrugs. "I guess it's…"

"…a New York thing?" she offers helpfully, biting back a smile at the most uneasy and inept attempt at an apology she's ever witnessed.

He nods, relieved. "I might grow out of it," he smirks, shrugging again.

"Maybe," she lets the smile out this time, "but I won't hold my breath."

He grins, shaking his head, and lights another cigarette.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	11. Of Fudge, Fractures and Fishing

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**10. Of Fudge, Fractures and Fishing**

_I watch the ripples change their size,  
but never leave the stream of warm impermanence  
So the days float through my eyes  
but still the days seem the same__ …_

"Let's make cookies," Lorelai abruptly cuts off Bowie in mid-verse as she wanders into the room, clutching a giant mug of coffee.

Rory shakes her head and continues proof-reading her latest _Franklin_ piece. "We don't know how to make cookies," she murmurs without looking up from the desk.

"True," Lorelai chirps behind her, "but I'm sure Google does, so it's not really a matter of knowing how to make cookies, it's more a matter of knowing how to type and read, and we've mastered that."

Rory crosses out a sentence. "Well, I'm pretty sure that making cookies involves having to bake them at some point, yes?"

"Yeah, so? Baking just means you have to stick them in the oven; how hard can that possibly be?" Lorelai lifts her eyebrows.

"In our case, next to impossible, considering we use the oven for storing out-of-season shoes," Rory points out with a smile and turns the page.

Lorelai frowns and walks over to the desk. "Huh, I forgot about that," she admits, contemplating the issue briefly, but immediately brightens up when a new idea hits. "Maybe we can microwave them?"

Rory laughs. "The shoes?"

Lorelai throws her a dirty look. "Funny," she grimaces.

"Anyway, I don't think you can microwave cookies," Rory smiles, then frowns at the paper. "Unbelivable. I mis-spelled bizarre."

"Wow. That's… bizarre," Lorelai chuckles. "I know, we'll make fudge. No baking there!"

"I can't," Rory shakes her head and gives up on the article. "What's with the sugar-rush, anyway?" she adds, looking up. "Are you wearing pajamas?" she asks incredulously, cutting herself off.

"Yes," Lorelai beams at her. "And why not?"

"It's barely dark out, for one thing," Rory chuckles.

"Hey, they're my pajamas, I can wear them whenever I choose," Lorelai quips lightly, "and the why not was not in reference to me wearing pajamas, it was in reference to you saying you can't make fudge. Why can't you make fudge?"

"Because," Rory sighs, "I have Jess tonight."

"Ouch, mind reeling, horrible images presenting themselves in quick succession," Lorelai whines and leans against the desk.

"Funny," Rory grimaces. "I'm tutoring him, remember?"

"Ahh, right, Luke's ingenious scheme, I forgot," Lorelai says sullenly. "Or maybe I just repressed it," she sighs and stares into her coffee. "You didn't have to agree to do it, you know," she adds after a moment.

"I know," Rory says. "But it's Luke," she shrugs after a moment.

"Right, it's _Luke_," Lorelai nods, slightly stressing the name.

The over- pronunciation registers as intended and Rory quickly busies herself with clearing the desk, her eyes firmly attached to various books and binders strewn about its surface. For the moment, it's just safer not to show her face because she has no idea what's written there, but whatever it is, she's fairly certain Lorelai would read it effortlessly. It's wildly disturbing, this recent urge to hide from her mother, it's new and unsettling, but on some weird level, she feels it's necessary, she somehow needs to keep this whole Jess conundrum to herself until she figures it out, until she knows what it means and how she feels about it. The truth is, she has no idea what she's feeling, there are so many conflicting emotions wreaking havoc all around her previously so well-organized and ordered inner world that just naming them all is an impossible mission, not to mention attempting to make any sense of them. The curiosity, the interest, the latent attraction that were there before that kiss (now internally referred to as a gigantic mistake!) are all still there; they have not at all diminished but seem to have multiplied exponentially instead, having dutifully expanded to include a whirlwind of new arrivals she's rather not linger on.

And yet somehow, absurdly, Lorelai is actually wrong to think she'd wanted to tutor Jess; she really didn't. When Luke asked her to, there was a strong, unmistakable impulse to say no, and if it wasn't Luke who'd asked, she wouldn't have agreed to do it. There is just something inherently frightening about regularly spending time with Jess while she hasn't got a firm grip on her feelings, there's a huge _Caution!_ sign stamped in her brain in big block letters, and a hundred alarms shriek incessantly in her head every time she gets within a few feet of him, and yet, despite of all that (_or maybe because of it?_) he's as much fun to be around as ever, and every conversation is an unexpected journey in self-discovery as much as it is learning about him. So basically, she doesn't really want to see him at all until she actually does see him, and once that happens, she can't believe she ever considered avoiding him. It's like chocolate – rationally, you know it's bad for you, but once you're faced with the cake, rationale fades quickly and you sink your teeth into it on pure impulse, simply because you want to.

Having unconsciously reorganized the desk several times over, she finally looks up and finds Lorelai has vanished from the room during this unexpected excursion into soul-searching. A glance at the clock reveals it's time for her to get going, and her stomach immediately ties into a knot at the idea of hours of Jess that lay ahead; a smaller knot develops at the prospect of being scrutinized by Lorelai on her way out of the house. There's also the issue of clothes, and after twenty minutes of deliberation, she exchanges her current pants for different ones, and her sweatshirt for –well, a shirt. She pulls on her most impassive facial expression and cements it firmly in place, then takes a deep breath and steps out of her sanctuary.

Lorelai is googling fudge recipes on her laptop, a stubborn frown creasing her forehead. "Wow, you really have your heart set on that fudge," Rory chuckles, peering over her shoulder.

"There are just too many choices," Lorelai whines miserably. "There is a few million variations of fudge, and I just want the basic thing, you know, _fudge vulgaris_…"

Rory laughs. "Well, have you tried typing that in?"

"You think?" Lorelai asks incredulously, then shrugs. "Well, it's worth a shot," she concludes and goes back to the keyboard.

Rory shakes her head and finds her bag, then pulls on her shoes; straightening up, she finds herself face to face with a mirror. After a moment of contemplation, she gets rid of the pony tail, and tucks her hair behind her ears. The next moment resurrects the pony tail, the one after it brings a loose bun; another glance in the mirror, but this time the mirror reflects Lorelai's face as well as her own, and Rory spins around quickly and finds her leaning against the hallway wall.

Rory clears her throat. "I have to go," she announces, looking around for her jacket. "And just for the record, I'd rather make fudge."

"Sure. I mean, who wouldn't?" Lorelai shrugs, and watches her scramble. "But on some level, you want to do this tutoring thing, because if you didn't, you wouldn't be doing it."

"No, I don't, and yes, I would," Rory rolls her eyes. "I told you, it's Luke-"

"Yeah, but it's not all about Luke," Lorelai says softly, shaking her head. "Is it?"

"Well, no, clearly it's not all about Luke, because it's Jess that I'm tutoring, which inevitably makes him a part of the equation, but you know, he's a minor part," Rory argues, "I mean, really miniscule. Definitely unimportant."

"Right, sure," Lorelai nods impassively, then lifts her eyebrows. "Is that what you're wearing?"

"Yes…why? What's wrong with it?" Rory whirls around and gapes into the mirror.

"Why do you care?" Lorelai quips quickly. "Luke won't, and well, Jess is… miniscule. Unimportant. Certainly not worthy of picking out clothes and rearranging hairstyles, correct?"

Rory folds her arms on her chest and frowns into the mirror. "I'd rather make fudge," she repeats severely.

"Okay, that sounds so threatening I'm actually glad to do it alone," Lorelai chuckles and kisses the top of Rory's head before she throws a jacket over it. "Go. Spread knowledge and wisdom, and while you're at it, take a stab at his lovely manners and the sweet attitude, God knows that could use an adjustment" she adds and retreats back into the kitchen.

Rory huffs exasperatedly and removes the jacket from her head; she glances into the mirror again, pulls the bun loose and walks out of the house.

…

"You should go," Rory says quietly.

"We've been over this," Jess declares with determination.

She rolls her eyes. "I'm fine," she proclaims for what feels like a hundredth time in the last half hour.

"I can see that, but I'm staying," he smirks and pushes his hands into his pockets.

"I have to call my mom, and you really don't want to be here once she arrives," Rory warns solemnly.

"Nice try, but I'm not going anywhere," Jess chuckles. "Parents don't scare me."

"Yeah well, that just goes to show you've never come face to face with raging Lorelai," Rory mutters to herself. "I mean, you're not her favorite person as it is, to put it mildly, and I'm guessing this new development really won't help that."

"Right, whereas my abandoning you in the hospital after having crashed your car will certainly improve her opinion of me," he points out ironically; she shrugs and looks at her feet, dangling from the examination table. "Yeah, I didn't think so," he smirks.

"Since when do you care what my mother thinks, anyway?" she challenges, annoyed.

"I don't care," he rolls his eyes.

She frowns. "Really? Then where's this misplaced… chivalry coming from?"

"Chivalry," he bursts out laughing. "Jesus…"

"Okay, fine, forget chivalry," she rolls her eyes. "If you really don't care what she thinks, and this is not some twisted attempt to – " she mimes quotation marks in the air with her good hand "- do the right thing, then just please make my life a whole lot easier and just go. I promise I won't think any less of you. I'll even be eternally grateful. "

"And what makes you think I care what you think of me?" he lifts his eyebrows, smirking again.

The comment leaves her speechless at first, and after a moment of scrambling for an appropriate response, she just gives up and shakes her head. "Fine. You're not here because of my mother, you're not here because of me, so my next best guess is that you must have a latent death-wish or something."

"Or something," he chuckles, "but let's revisit the you being eternally grateful bit. Why would you be eternally grateful, exactly?"

"Because, I hate fights, and all of this-" she waves her hand around "-guarantees a blow-out of gigantic proportions once my mom arrives, provided she finds you here," she explains exasperatedly. "And whether you believe it or not, I really wouldn't be surprised if she… well, 'kills you dead' sounds a little dramatic, but still, somehow, that's the scenario I'm visualizing right now."

"Well, setting aside the legal repercussions of murder, I think that would at least get her into some serious trouble with Luke," he chuckles.

"Oh, she'll probably kill Luke as well, just for being related to you," Rory mutters solemnly.

Jess chuckles and shakes his head. "Okay, just restrain your over-active imagination and join me in the real world for a moment," he says, smirking at the annoyed glance this suggestion earns him. "Yes, I get the fact Lorelai will be less than ecstatic about the fact I put you into cast, and yes, there will probably be some yelling and screaming, but frankly, I don't see what the big deal about that is. I mean, I'll be the one on the receiving end of all the niceties, not you, since clearly, you're the victim here. And I really don't care, I've been yelled at before."

She closes her eyes and rubs her forehead. "Could you just go? Please?"

There's something close to desperation in her tone and he takes a moment to really look at her. "It's that important to you?"

"Not important, just…easier," she sighs, opening her eyes again.

For reasons not entirely clear to him, he's extremely unwilling to leave her here alone, which is absolutely ridiculous, seeing that she's perfectly safe and entirely fine, save for the wrist fracture that the doctor declared to be barely a fracture at all.

"Go," she says again, and points to the door. "Now. Please."

"Okay, fine, I'll go," he nods after a brief moment of silence.

"Thank you, " she says emphatically, and graces him with the smallest of smiles.

"On one condition," he adds with a smirk.

The smile vanishes. "Naturally," she rolls her eyes, sighing. "The condition being?"

He steps closer, and stands directly in front of her.

"Tell me why it's so important," he shrugs, "or easier, whatever."

She frowns. "I thought I made that clear."

"Well, apparently not. I hit my head, so I'm a little slow," he smirks; she sighs and shakes her head. "Come on, it's a fair deal," he points out casually.

"Yeah well, I've recently learned deals can get you much more than you bargained for," she mutters to her feet.

His stomach flips and he skips a breath. "Yeah, me too," he admits by reflex; she steals a brief glance at his eyes but quickly reverts to a less compelling scenery. The floor tiles are good.

"I don't want you to get into another fight with my mom. I'm still dealing with the consequences of the first one," she admits honestly.

He frowns. "The first one?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, that inspired little set of crap you unloaded on her on our porch."

He crosses his arms on his chest. "That was hardly a fight," he points out defensively.

"Well, whatever you want to call it, you definitely made an impression. And now, when she finds me here with a cast, and you standing right next to me, and the car crashed… well, there's bound to be screaming on both ends, and then she'll really hate you, and you'll hate her-"

"I won't hate her," he interrupts, annoyed.

"Doesn't matter, I'm sure she'll hate you enough to compensate," she quips ironically. "Either way, I'll be stuck in the middle, and I'll never hear the end of it."

"I promise never to mention it again," he smirks. "I'm really good at that," he adds thoughtfully after a moment.

"That's not what I'm worried about," she says quietly, choosing to overlook the underlying meaning of the last remark.

"Then what? What are you worried about?" he asks exasperatedly, spreading his hands. "I don't get it."

"I don't want to have to sneak around to see you, or talk to you! I don't want to have to hide that!" she yells anxiously. "And with this stupid crash and the cast and everything else, it will already be a close call with damage control without you here to make matters worse!"

His head spins at the sudden outburst, but as the haze lifts, the dots finally connect and he manages to hear the important thing that she's not saying; the fact that she's still not looking at him is just makes it all that much clearer. "Okay, so this is about you wanting to see me?" he asks incredulously.

She takes a breath and shrugs. "I don't want you to fail English, " she says quietly. "Luke would be miserable."

"Luke, huh?" he lifts his eyebrows, but the gesture is lost on Rory because she's still closely scrutinizing the floor tiles (light green, with some yellow thrown in for contrast) and all he gets in response is a courteous nod. "Okay, let me recapitulate, just to make sure I' hearing you correctly – you want me to leave because you don't want me to get into a fight with Lorelai, because she'll then dig in her heels and put an end to this tutoring thing, which you don't want to have happen because of Luke's feelings. Did I miss anything?"

No, that sounds about right. It also sounds completely ridiculous, but that's the excuse she came up with and there's really no dignified way of backing out now. "Yeah, I guess," she chokes out, reverently wishing the floor would crack open and swallow her. Or him, that would be even better. The tiles don't move and she regretfully abandons the possibility.

"Is there something wrong with my face?" he suddenly asks. "It's been a small eternity since you actually looked at me. I'm developing a meaningful relationship with the top of your head."

She takes a breath and lifts her eyes, wincing inwardly when she finds his face much closer than she left it; as usual, the smirk is there, one eyebrow slightly cocked over the unreadable expression, and her blood dutifully surges a little faster, but she swallows against it all with determination. "Yes, there's something wrong with your face, it's still here," she clips with annoyance. "It should be long out the door by now. Ideally, it should be at your apartment, buried in Shakespeare."

There's definite defiance in her tone, but it doesn't reflect in her expression, so he writes it off as unimportant. "I don't need a tutor, Rory," he says softly; the smirk has disappeared and she instantly misses it, realizing it was much easier to take than this searching look he's giving her now, the look that brings back flashes of that kiss she doesn't want to remember.

"Then what, what do you want from me?" she desperately blurts out the first thought that pops into her head, and regrets it instantly, recoiling in a panic. "No, don't answer that," she follows up, blushing furiously, deathly certain she'd rather not know the answer to that question. "Just go, okay?"

"Right," he smirks obligingly, but she can tell it's just a reflex, his heart is not really in it; he gives her one more glance and steps away slowly, turning toward the door. "Sorry," he says quietly, reaching for the knob, "about your hand. About the car. The whole mess."

She gives him a dismissive little smile. "Hey, I'm fine. You're fine. The furry thing is fine. The same thing would have happened if I was driving."

"Yeah, but you weren't," he shrugs, and closes the door behind himself; she stares at it for a small eternity before she remembers she has a call to make.

…

"I made sure she was okay," Jess says dully.

"I know you did," Luke replies, and settles next to him on the bridge.

"The doctor said she was fine, and I waited in the parking lot until I saw Lorelai arrive," Jess shrugs.

Luke nods. "Smart call, steering clear of her," he points out under his breath.

"Yeah well, it wasn't my idea," Jess replies, annoyed.

"It's still a smart call," Luke sighs. "Lorelai's grip on reality is temporarily… well, somewhat less firm than usual."

"Rory implied murder," Jess mumbles, throwing a pebble into the water. "You were supposed to be a collateral victim."

"Yeah well, she hasn't slipped quite that far," Luke says with a trace of irony. "There was just a lot of screaming. On both ends."

"Sorry," Jess offers reluctantly; having someone stand up for him is an unfamiliar occurrence, and he's not entirely sure what the appropriate reaction is.

"I'll live. So will she," Luke shrugs. "It's not a big deal."

_It is to me_. The words ring clearly in his head, but somehow, Jess can't quite get them out. "I have no idea how it happened," he mutters instead. "I swear, one second, there was a clear stretch of road ahead, and in the next one, this furry thing materialized out of nowhere. It was like it dropped clear from the sky, and froze in the headlights, and I just… swerved." He rubs his face irritably. "If that idiotic bench was just a few feet to the left…"

"Hey, forget it. It was a reflex. You're fine, Rory'll be fine in a few weeks, the furry thing is probably traumatized but will doubtlessly live as well, so just let it go."

Jess shakes his head. "I swear, I'd rather I crack my skull open and be comatose for weeks than have her get as much as a paper-cut," he says absently, and launches another pebble into the water.

Luke watches and listens carefully, and the obvious truth reveals itself unceremoniously between the lines and the hollow facial expression; he fights the impulse to gawk incredulously and refrains from commenting. There would probably just be denial on the other end anyway.

"So, what happens tomorrow? Crucifixion? Public lynching?" Jess asks after a stretch of silence. "Should we hang garlic around our necks, maybe find some bodyguards?"

Luke chuckles, shaking his head. "Actually, I'm leaning toward fishing," he says casually.

"Fishing?" Jess echoes blankly.

"Fishing," Luke affirms calmly. "Are you coming?"

"Do I actually have to fish?" Jess asks, giving Luke a suspicious look.

"No," Luke shrugs.

Jess frowns, and throws another pebble; it skips a few times before it disappears with a soft plop. "Then yeah, fishing sound good."

* * *

_Lyrics used: Changes, David Bowie_

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	12. Of Signs, Swooning and Thinglets

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**11. Of Signs, Swooning and Thinglets**

Days drift by, the diner stays closed, and Stars Hollow suffers a collective caffeine withdrawal and malnutrition phase. Granted, there are other places to get coffee and food, but none gets delivered with Luke's grumpy warnings of health hazards involving the consumption of caffeine and red meat, so it's just not the same. Lorelai refuses to divulge what it was she screeched at Luke to cause his sudden escape to the wild, so Rory's only left with scenarios her own imagination provides, and each new one she thinks of is worse than the previous.

Staring at the 'Gone fishing' sign becomes a daily ritual; she studies it religiously every morning while she waits for her bus across the street, and quickly learns to hate the ambiguous phrasing. Gone fishing… there are just no pronouns in the stupid thing. Did they both go fishing? If they did, Jess is missing school, and it seems unlikely Luke would allow that. On the other hand, if Luke went alone, then where's Jess? Whenever she gets to that point, a very simple and obvious answer presents itself, and she regularly discards it because there's an awful, hollow feeling that spreads within at the very idea he actually might be gone for more than just fishing. Soon, she really hates that sign, and by some weird proxy, she hates fishing as well.

Aside from the fishing trip, there is one other equally disturbing but infinitely more annoying consequence of the spectacular car crash – a collective condemnation of Jess. Everywhere she turns, people are generously passing judgment on the irresponsible, reckless outsider who carelessly crashed the beautiful car saint Dean built for his beloved girlfriend. The fact that it was the beloved girlfriend who let the irresponsible outsider drive is inconsequential - no matter how loudly or how many times she points it out, it's always met with the same dismissive glance. The same goes for the argument that there would have been a crash regardless of who was driving, provided they chose not to slaughter the furry specimen that caused the entire drama. But no matter how she works any of those conversations, Jess inevitably comes out labeled a conniving criminal who purposefully hurt an unsuspecting naïve little girl, destroyed her beloved car and managed to (once again) vandalize public property in the process. The whole thing drives her crazy to the point of screaming and pulling her hair out, and she can't decide what irritates her more, the Jess bashing or the fact that, in this widely accepted scenario, she herself comes off as a deluded and easily manipulated brainless idiot. It's ridiculous, infuriating and beyond annoying, but no one bothers to understand that, least of all her mother, being a certified ring-leader of the whole blame-assigning show.

As usual, the single silver lining in the whole mess was Dean. After the initial shock wore off, he quite gracefully accepted the painful truth of the shattered car. He even refrained from open Jess persecution, and although her insistence that the crash was as much her fault as it was Jess's produced some decidedly disbelieving looks and suspicious grunts, he made no comment and simply proclaimed none of it matters as long as no one was seriously hurt. It sounded good and she was grateful for the pacific attitude, even though she suspected that in actuality, a concussed Jess would have made him quite happy.

Crossing the square, she casts a habitual furtive look at the diner; all the blinds are still closed and the cursed sign continues to mock her from a distance, still betraying nothing useful. Would Jess call if he really returned to New York? Last time she saw him, she practically kicked him out of that examination room. Would she call if she was in his place? Probably not. Would she go back to New York and just forget about the brief crazy-town phase? Probably yes. No one in their right mind would choose to stay in a town where everyone pretty much hates their guts, she finally admits to herself after having dodged the issue for days. It would be… ludicrous, beyond insane.

The familiar hollow feeling returns, and she takes a breath and walks faster, as if she might somehow out-pace it. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work, and she once again attempts to dismiss and ignore the meaning of this fast-growing emptiness; it's uncomfortable and frightening to face. She doesn't want to be missing him so acutely, or with such intensity; she really doesn't want to be missing him at all, yet she knows this is precisely what this hollow feeling is, just as she knows the bitter little knot that forms at the thought he might be gone for good is regret. Neither should be present, yet both are, and it's disconcerting and inexplicable and crazy, because objectively, he's really not that great. _Yeah, okay, concentrate on that_, she happily turns her mind to this new direction. _He's pathologically cynical. Also, arrogant, even conceited. Getting a straight answer from him would give Freud a run for his money. He doesn't care about anyone, or anything. He's unbelievably intelligent, but purposefully avoids applying his brain to anything meaningful. He's stubborn. Usually completely insufferable. Ambiguous. Evasive. Cryptic. Guarded. Puzzling. Compelling. Intriguing. Charming smile. Striking eyes. Fantastic to touch… incredible to feel, and taste, and kiss… Oh crap, this has gone all wrong,_ she thinks desperately, suddenly out of breath and flushed, once again fiercely wishing she'd never kissed him, never experienced all the amazing sensations that kiss created… she couldn't miss or crave something she doesn't know exists.

Feeling drained and absurdly betrayed by her own mind, she despondently walks up a few steps and rings a doorbell; the door opens with a reassuring creak.

"I know it's late, but I need to talk to a normal person," she says earnestly.

"Well, in that case, I guess I should just go back to what I was doing and send you on your way," Lane replies solemnly.

"I'll settle for you," Rory chuckles and steps into the house.

"God, I hate being considered normal, even if you are just settling," Lane rolls her eyes and closes the door.

"Sorry, I'll rephrase – how about a person with a fairly balanced grip on reality?" Rory corrects herself, following Lane up the stairs.

"Oh wow, don't you know me at all?" Lane chuckles over her shoulder, pushing her bedroom door open. "Here's the deal - my mom's at Bible reading for about another half hour, so when we hear the front door opening, you're sneaking out the window."

"Okay, so I'll just skip the witty introduction," Rory sighs and slumps on the bed.

"So," Lane lifts her eyebrows, joining her. "Have you talked to Dean?"

"Yep," Rory nods.

"Did he yell?" Lane asks, grimacing sympathetically.

"No, no yelling. He started off with a shocked silence, but recuperated nicely and moved straight on to understanding and supportive," Rory reports in a flat tone.

"Wow, it's official," Lane shakes her head incredulously, "the guy is an actual saint. And here I thought they came with halos."

"Yep, a saint," Rory nods absently.

"Okay, your face, the tone, the overall blues-like gloominess… not really the reaction I would have expected," Lane remarks, frowning slightly.

Rory sighs. "I did the jumping for joy bit yesterday," she explains.

"Whereas today, you're doing the diving for depression bit…?" Lane trails off questioningly.

Rory shakes her head. "You know, sometimes I really hate this town," she says glumly.

"Oh, I hate it in regular hourly intervals," Lane chuckles, "it's just the reasons that change occasionally."

Rory rolls her eyes. "If Miss Patty tells me one more time that swooning over a rebel without a cause is a rite of passage every woman has to go through, I swear I'll have a seizure," she declares with conviction.

"Ahhh, I see the Jess slamming is still going strong," Lane sympathizes.

"It's unbelievable," Rory shakes her head. "And apparently, I have no brain of my own. I'm a gullible little idiot that he duped into letting him drive and crash into a bench," she adds sarcastically. "It's so unfair, it's makes me sick."

"It'll blow over soon enough," Lane says reassuringly. "With Jess out of the picture, no one will even remember it happened a week from now."

"What do you mean, with Jess out of the picture?" Rory sits up, alarmed.

"I mean, he probably went back to New York," Lane shrugs.

"You don't know that," Rory counters, frowning.

Lane gives her a quick searching look. "Well, wouldn't you?"

It's a difficult logic to fight, and Rory sinks back into the bed. "Yeah, I suppose I would," she mutters absently.

Lane looks at her silently for a moment, debating whether to play dumb or brutally honest; the latter wins and she clears her throat. "You miss him, don't you?"

Rory goes through the same dilemma, and swallows. "Yeah, a little."

Lane sighs and drops on her back next to her. "So you did swoon over a rebel. Wow, that Miss Patty knows her stuff."

"What? No, I didn't _swoon_," Rory denies vehemently.

Lane shrugs. "You kissed the guy. That's swooning, sort of," she points out reasonably; Rory rolls her eyes. "So, on the off chance he comes back, what happens?" Lane continues. "Will you keep swooning?"

"I don't think he's coming back," Rory says reluctantly.

"Okay, hypothetically, what happens if he does come back?" Lane persists gently.

"Nothing," Rory shrugs. "It's not a big deal. I still love Dean. I mean, who wouldn't love him, he's perfect."

"Oh yeah, no argument there," Lane affirms. "As I said, halo or not, he's a saint."

"Right," Rory nods, "and I love him."

"Okay, do you keep repeating that to convince me, or yourself?" Lane asks softly. Rory looks at her with a blank expression, and she sighs. "It's just that, even though they are closely connected, love and loyalty are actually two separate things."

Rory gapes at her silently, her mind reeling around this new puzzle, when the sound of a door creaking drifts up the stairs, and this time, it doesn't sound reassuring at all.

"Okay, out the window, now," Lane says frantically, and Rory scampers off the bed and over the window sill.

"We forgot one tiny detail," she suddenly realizes. "I'm in a cast!"

Lane rolls her eyes. "You don't need your hand for jumping!"

"Right, I guess not. God, I hope I won't have to make a habit out of this," Rory mutters quietly once she's on the porch roof.

"And you called me normal," Lane whispers sarcastically and waves, bolting the window shut.

The jump is not that high, courtesy of the shed that provides a mid-level between the porch roof and the mother Earth; once safely on the ground, Rory quietly sneaks into the street, and sets off across the square. By sheer force of habit, she glances toward the diner, and instantly freezes still. There's a light on in the apartment.

….

_Home, sweet home_, Jess thinks sarcastically as he lugs the second load of baggage, mostly comprised of fishing poles and worm containers, up the stairs.

"Where do you want these?" he calls to Luke, who's busy stuffing the freezer full of fish.

"These what, exactly? I don't have eyes in the back of my head, and I kind of have my hands full," Luke scowls over his shoulders.

"Well, the murder weapons responsible for all those fish corpses," Jess says sweetly. "I'm surprised – although eternally grateful - you don't have any of those mounted on the walls."

"Hey, it's the way of the wild, hunting for food," Luke throws back flatly, "it's perfectly natural, survival of the fittest."

"Okay, spare me the tutorial on the ways of the wilderness," Jess clips quickly. "So, the poles and the worms?"

"Storage, downstairs," Luke says dully, wrestling a trout.

"I'm surprised you don't sleep with them," Jess mutters to himself, returning downstairs. He opens the storage door and shoves the load into the room blindly, daydreaming of a hot shower and a shave. With that pleasant thought in mind, he returns to the truck and pulls his duffel bag from the back; hoisting it over his shoulder, he closes the tail-gate and turns back to the door.

She's standing a few feet to the left, slightly breathless but weirdly rigid, with her one hand pushed so far into her pocket that her jacket looks like it's about to burst at the seams around her shoulders; the cast-enveloped one hangs loosely at her side, and he registers the familiar twinge of guilt at the sight, but otherwise, she looks fine, aside from a somewhat perplexed expression. She looks… pretty, he admits unwillingly, reluctantly, just like he'd thought about her during this self-imposed absence, wondering if her wrist hurt, if she was angry now that she'd had time to properly process everything that's happened. None of it shows in her face, but she's not saying anything, and the silence seems to last forever as they stand in the cluttered alley and exchange a long stare.

Something crashes above their heads; the air carries down Luke's yelp followed by a curse through the window overhead, and Jess looks up for a moment. No cry for help follows and he gets ready to refocus on her, determined to speak, but as he tilts his head back down, her face is suddenly barely a breath away; the breath passes and her lips come up to his in sweet abandon. Stupidly, for a while he holds on both to her and the idiotic duffel bag before he remembers to drop the bloody thing, and wraps both arms around her; she only has one available and it curls around his neck as she lifts herself on her toes. She tastes just as sweet as he remembers, and her tongue weaves the same delicious pattern around his as it did before, and the whole experience proves beyond a doubt that first kiss wasn't a fluke because the same force comes alive with this one and his blood boils just as fast and furious. A heavenly little sound escapes somewhere in her throat and impulsively, he pulls her closer, chasing another one, but the movement also brings acute awareness of the cast and he lets up, suddenly panicked it wasn't a whimper of pleasure but pain, worried he's hurting her. Like a captured bird, she springs loose at the movement and jumps back, retreating hastily.

"Oh my God," she breathes, staggering backwards, and clamps her hand over her mouth.

"Rory," he warns, reaching after her.

"No," she shakes her head, evading him. "I have to go," she blurts out, turning away.

"Oh no, you don't," he says quickly, grabbing her by the hand. "We're talking about this one."

"There's nothing to talk about," she snaps, pulling away. "Let go of me!"

"What, so you can run like hell and avoid me for days?" He shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"Jess, let go of me," she grits through her teeth.

He sighs. "Fine. But if you run, I swear I'll chase you and tie you up to this truck if need be, because this time, we're talking about this."

There's such definite resolve in his eyes that she doesn't dare test it, and since she can't avoid the whole mess, it really makes no difference if he's holding on to her or not, so she stops struggling.

"What just happened?" he asks flatly, releasing her, doing his best to ignore the wild thumping in his ears.

"Nothing," she insists, "nothing important, anyway."

"You kissed me," he points out the brutal fact, and she feels nauseous.

"Yeah, well, you didn't exactly fight it," she clips quickly.

"I can't think of a healthy guy who would," he smirks, "unless, you know, he plays for the other team."

"It was a mistake, I shouldn't have done it," she sighs. "I don't know why I did, I can't explain it. It was just a crazy impulse."

"I'm not buying that," he says simply. "Once is an impulse. Twice, definitely more than an impulse."

She looks at him indignantly. "The once of the twice never happened, remember?"

"Oh no, we're past that. Game over, I'm not playing anymore," he warns severely.

Her eyes narrow. "Which would effectively make you a liar, correct?" she challenges icily.

"Okay, whatever you need to tell yourself. The fact remains you kissed me, twice," he counters lightly.

"It meant nothing!" she yells in frustration.

He cocks his eyebrow. "Twice," he reiterates. "That almost constitutes a habit."

"In your dreams," she bites back furiously.

"Okay, then how do you explain it?" he asks innocently.

"I don't know, full moon, temporary insanity, lack of vitamins… take your pick," she shrugs dismissively.

"Fatal attraction? Underlying feelings?" he offers sweetly.

"Please," she rolls her eyes. "I have a boyfriend for those," she adds ruthlessly.

He bursts out laughing. "Oh, give me a break. You don't have a boyfriend. You have a very close friend at best. There's more passion between Taylor and Kirk than between you two. It's kind of sad, actually," he adds solemnly.

"Hey, I'll have you know there's plenty of passion, okay? We're just able to restrain ourselves and not crawl all over each other in public," she snaps viciously.

He smiles a patronizing little smile. "You either just proved my point, or your concept of passion is seriously screwed up, in which case, here's a reality check – by definition, passion is precisely about not being able to restrain yourself," he smirks. "Sort of like what happened when you kissed me. Twice," he adds helpfully.

"Clearly, a giant mistake on both counts," she deadpans. "Trust me, it won't happen again."

"Right," he chuckles, "because you'll just snap your fingers and this whole thing between us will just vanish into thin air."

"There is no _thing_ between us," she grits through her teeth.

"Oh, there's a thing," he reaffirms with conviction. "Not even you can be that delusional."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she declares in a flat tone, amazed the lie comes so easily.

"Really?" he challenges, the smirk evaporating to make room for a much more sinister expression. "I could prove you wrong in a heartbeat," he promises determinedly, stepping closer.

Her resolve melts into oblivion, leaving behind just the crazy heartbeat and mad blood rush. "Okay, there's something. But it's definitely not a thing, it's a… thinglet, maybe."

"That's not even a word," he smirks.

"Yes, exactly, that's how insignificant it is," she quips instantly, frowning. "And this not-even-a-word thinglet will never become a thing, so this whole conversation is pointless."

"And what would be so horrible about seeing whether this thinglet can actually become a thing," he asks softly, and she shivers at the tone; it's like a warm summer shower, riveting and soothing at the same time.

"Because I already have a different thing," she says quietly. "A good thing. A thing with history, a thing that deserves more than to be discarded on a thinglet I barely know, regardless of how good it feels." She shakes her head. "I just can't do it."

He can't think of anything to say to that, aside from calling her a raving lunatic or something else equally inappropriate, so he just stares at her for a long moment, wondering what that dink has done to deserve such unwavering devotion.

"I'm going to go," she says reluctantly; he just nods. "I'm sorry I kissed you," she adds after a few steps.

"I'm not," he smirks, reaching for the duffel bag.

She smiles a little smile and disappears around the corner; he hoist the bag over his shoulder and goes into the diner.

Up above, Luke pulls away from the window overlooking the alley, and blindly goes in search of a beer, scratching his head._ Holy crap…_

_

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_

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	13. Of Fieldtrips, Titans and Contraband

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

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**12. Of Field-trips, Titans and Contraband**

"Okay, what?" Jess rolls his eyes, folds the newspaper and squints at look Luke over a plate of scrambled eggs.

"What what?" Luke echoes blankly, a piece of toast lingering in the air en route to his mouth.

"The staring, the gawking, the supposedly hidden glances you've been throwing around," Jess counts off exasperatedly. "Ever since we got back, you've been examining me with that annoying look, like you expect me to suddenly sprout antlers or break out in hives. I feel like a guinea pig."

"Huh, testy," Luke lifts his eyebrows and swallows the toast.

"Yeah well, all that hovering would drive the Dalai Lama up the wall," Jess declares severely, "so either spill, or knock it off."

"Unfortunately, you don't get to decide what or who I do or don't look at, or in what way," Luke clips easily, leaving the table. "But if snapping at me makes whatever is eating you easier to digest, go right ahead."

"Nothing is eating me," Jess retorts vehemently.

"Right," Luke chuckles, and dumps his plate in the sink. "Sure, whatever."

"Hey, that's my line," Jess snaps with a frown.

"Jesus," Luke rolls his eyes, "I rest my case."

Jess squints harder, and folds his arms. "Okay, fine," he says flatly, "if you're such a mind-reader, you tell me what my problem is."

Luke shakes his head and heads out. "Oh, I'm so not touching that one," he chuckles, pulling the door open. "I've got to go to Hartford. The morning shift's all yours, so wrap it up here and get downstairs. Please try not to break and burn anything, or harass and insult anyone, directly or indirectly, for the next few hours, okay?"

Jess mutters something incoherent and goes back to his eggs, but finds his appetite gone. Feeling some general defiance is required to brighten his mood, he pours a cup of coffee and lights a cigarette in the middle of the apartment, but still makes a compromise and opens the window before he settles back at the table, pushing the eggs away.

"Actually, on the second thought – " Jess dumps the cigarette into the coffee cup as Luke re-enters the apartment, pulling his jacket off "- _you_ go to Hartford. There's a box of paperwork in the back seat that needs to be delivered to my accountant," he continues. "The guy's name and address are on the card in the glove compartment, and it's too simple a job even for you to screw up, so get going, take that lovely face for a field-trip so I don't have to look at it for a few hours. Oh, and if this smoking in the apartment continues, you'll be washing the walls once a month," he adds casually and heads downstairs, launching the truck keys at Jess.

Thinking quickly, Jess manages to divert the keys' original trajectory with the newspaper, deciding not to read too much into the fact that they were aimed directly at his head. Although still generally annoyed with life, he registers a subtle positive mood swing at being spared from diner duty - not to mention school - and easily dumps the cigarette-flavored coffee into the toilet before he pulls on his jacket and descends down to the truck. Obviously sensing that he's in no mood to be trifled with, the engine miraculously starts at the first try; Stars Hollow slowly disappears behind him and he turns on the radio, cranking the volume up.

_Well there's a light in your eye that keeps shining  
Like a star that can't wait for the night  
I hate to think I've been blinded baby  
Why can't I see you tonight?_

_So what now_, he wonders with annoyance, once again revisiting the scene from a few nights ago, though he carefully steers clear of the kiss part. He'd figured Rory was genuinely in denial as far as her feelings go, and he'd had a plan – sort of - for handling that, but he's got no contingency for this particular variation when she's not really in denial, but simply chooses against what she's feeling. She's just so hopelessly mind-governed that emotions and instinct come into play only if they follow the chosen mental direction; if they don't, apparently they get dismissed and ignored. This completely baffles him, it's so utterly opposite of his own perception of the world that he can barely comprehend it as a concept, let alone understand how it can possibly be implemented.

_Oh, but she's stubborn, she's nearly as pig-headed as I am_, he admits with an annoyed smirk, which makes her more than capable to persist with something just for the sake of persisting; even worse, she has the annoying habit to put everyone else's feelings ahead of her own, be it Dean's, or Lorelai's, or Luke's… _Correction_, he thinks bitterly – _not everyone's feelings…_ because she doesn't seem to care too much about his.

Hartford looms into view and he digs out the card from the glove compartment, and finds the address within ten minutes; he leaves the box with a balding hippie and spares a moment to question Luke's sense of business and obvious scorn for the IRS before he returns to the truck. The engine proves less co-operative this time and it takes a few curses and a frustrated slam against the dashboard to kick it into gear.

Of all the irksome scenarios he'd envisioned when predicting the horrors of being stuck in the sticks, this particular one never presented itself, he'd never thought he'd stumble across a girl that would just boggle his mind so easily – well, he didn't really think he would stumble across one anywhere, especially since, statistically, if such a thing was to happen, New York would be the most likely place to find such a strange breed, and he hadn't come a real live specimen in sixteen years. And yet, he gets shipped to loony town and there she is, all sweet and kind and inherently small-townish on one hand, but quick-witted and extraordinarily intelligent on the other, with a subtle and smart sense of humor that's a perfect reflection of his own. To make matters worse, she reads; to make them disastrous, she reads books that are actually worth reading. The ultimate universal kick in the groin is of course the fact that, on top of all that, she's pretty, although not in a regular teen-magazine kind of way; she's somehow as unique in that as she is in everything else, in that subtle combination of grace and beauty that's inherent to her alone. With everything else going for her, the universe could have at least had the decency to strike the physical dimension – with that out of the way, they could have been friends for life. But no, that would have been too easy, it's much more fun for higher forces to inflict this chaos of chemistry on him and watch him squirm in the face of it.

He turns back into Stars Hollow, and in the alley a few minutes later, simultaneously slams on the breaks of the truck and his wandering mind, before his thoughts once again slip to that kiss and then hurtle into fantasies that have no place in the daylight, especially when it includes the general public. He locks the truck and, slipping in the back door, makes his way through the storage toward the diner, but stalls in the doorway and retreats at the last minute as he spots Lorelai sitting at the counter.

"Cheeseburger and fries," he hears Luke announce as he places a plate in front of her; his tone is unusually dull and extremely neutral.

"Thanks," she says, somewhat reluctantly; Luke makes no comment.

"Rory says hi," Lorelai breaks the silence again.

"Thanks," Luke responds flatly. "How's she doing?"

"Okay," Lorelai nods quickly, then takes a breath. "How's Jess?"

"Wow, that must have hurt," Luke quips ironically. "I appreciate the effort, but you know, don't strain yourself on my account."

"Okay, I deserved that," Lorelai sighs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off on you like that, but I just royally flipped out and you know, I just needed someone to blame and well, you were there…"

"Yeah, I remember," Luke cuts her off. "Vividly."

"Rory was in the hospital, Luke!" she says exasperatedly.

"Yes, she was, and yes, Jess put her there, I remember that part too so spare me the recap," Luke warns flatly. "I've heard it enough times in every imaginable variation over the last few days."

"Yeah well, it is what happened," she points out defiantly.

"What happened," Luke says firmly, "was an accident. It could have happened to anyone."

"Well, it didn't. It happened to Jess, with my kid in the car," Lorelai frowns. "That's the truth; the rest are just excuses."

"You're unbelievable," Luke shakes his head. "What, you actually think he was aiming for that bloody bench out of some deranged desire to kill them both?"

"I don't know what he was doing," she clips quickly, "and neither do you."

"Oh, but I do," Luke snaps back. "Yeah, he told me. And I listened. Made perfect sense too, so – as abominable as the idea sounds to you - I actually believe him."

"You seriously need to learn a few things about teenagers and their capacity to fabricate amazing cover stories," Lorelai retorts ironically.

"Right," Luke squints, "and Jess would do just that, wouldn't he? Because, you know, he's a regular delinquent and all that…"

"Well, he does have a flourishing track record," she declares without hesitation. "Oh come on, Luke, the kid is trouble, everyone except you can see that! He was trouble even without this last bit, that was just icing on the cake!"

"He's just a kid, Lorelai! He's sixteen, his dad is gone, his mother is a wacko, he's stuck here with me and God knows I'm no prize," Luke shakes his head. "Of course he's angry, and messed up, and acting out – it would be a miracle if he wasn't, and you were actually the one who told me that! But he's not a bad kid, and this witch-hunt you have instigated over one accident is beyond insane!"

"He's reckless, and irresponsible, and disrespectful…" she lists stubbornly.

"He's a sixteen!" Luke hollers, then catches himself as heads turn their way. "He's just a kid, Lorelai. What's your excuse?" he adds severely.

"I'm sorry?" she asks, baffled.

"He's a kid, he's supposed to act like one. You're being just as unreasonable, but you're supposed to know better," he declares ironically.

"Wow, he really put a number on you," she says, astonished.

"Yeah well, he had help," Luke quips lightly. "You might want to brace yourself for this one, but Rory actually told me the same story Jess did," he shrugs, folding his arms. "Now, are they both lying? I mean, _Rory_ doesn't lie, does she?"

Lorelai's eyes narrow. "No, she doesn't," she agrees icily, "but as reasonable and responsible as she is, she's also sixteen and her perception is proportionally skewed, so…"

"Oh, I see," Luke chuckles, "Jess is a lunatic and Rory's delusional."

"Hey, all I know is, before Jess came into the picture, I had a normal, cast-free kid who I could trust. Enter Jess, and I have a kid with a broken wrist who's hiding things from me!" she yells at him. "From where I'm sitting, it's a pretty simple equation!"

"What, he brainwashed her? Hypnotized her? Performed a lobotomy?" Luke shakes his head. "Are you hearing yourself? He's a teenager, not freaking Charles Mason," he adds sarcastically. "And here's a newsflash – maybe Rory wouldn't feel she had to hide if you weren't jumping at every chance to crucify Jess with such fanatic determination, because you know, it gets old quickly."

"Are you really telling me how I should talk to my kid? Seriously?" she asks in a dangerous tone, eyes narrowing.

"No, I wouldn't dream of it," Luke says, tone equally severe. "I will, however, ask you to consider carefully what you say to mine, once you run into him, which is an inevitable occurrence since we all live in a peanut-sized town."

"Jess is not your kid," she points out flatly.

"Well, he's the closest thing that I got," he clips seriously, "so when you do see him, imagine the situation was reversed, and think about what you'd want or wouldn't want me to say to Rory if she was the one who put him in a cast."

Lorelai gives him a murderous look but makes no comment – instead, she picks a french fry and chews on it with a vengeance.

"You want ketchup with that?" Luke offers after a minute of strangled silence.

"You know I do," she snaps back. "I can't believe you didn't just pour it on when you made up the plate. You always do."

"Well, in this instance, I thought you might go for my blood instead," he shrugs.

She fights back a smile but a trace escapes nonetheless.

"You know, he really hates himself because of what happened," Luke says quietly as he hands her the ketchup. "I promise you that, and whatever you may think of him, I've never lied to you and I'm not about to start over this."

Lorelai takes the ketchup and dumps half a bottle on her fries; behind the doorway, Jess steps back and leans against a shelf, head spinning.

_Okay, what just happened?_, he asks himself dully. He can't help feeling like he's just witnessed the clash of the titans, which in itself is not an everyday occurrence, but the thing that makes the whole incident even more surreal is the fact that one of the titans was most definitely sticking up for him, bluntly and infinitely more ferociously that he himself would have done. It's such a strange, unfamiliar scenario that he can't make heads or tails of it for a while, and spends a small eternity staring blindly into an indefinite and unspectacular spot on the opposite wall. Why would Luke bother? Why would he just plunge head-first into what was, most definitely, Jess's battle?_ Maybe it's just one of those enigmatic things parents do,_ his mind offers an answer that might be obvious to the world in general, but is somewhat less obvious in Jess's world since he can't really remember any such previous experience. He can't remember ever knowing the feeling that spreads inside him now either, this warm and weirdly comforting, reassuring sensation that lets him know he's not really alone, even when he feels like he is.

The alley door creaks and he whirls around, surprised; with himself standing where he is, and Luke still in the diner, habitual back-door users are all accounted for and he steps around the shelf and cranes his neck, frowning.

"Lane?" he says disbelievingly as he makes out the shape.

"Shhhh!" she shushes frantically, closing the door.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, bewildered.

"Duh, hiding, obviously," she rolls her eyes. "And keep your voice down, she'll be coming this way in half a second, and I barely slipped by her as it is!"

"Who, the wicked witch of the west?" he chuckles, but obligingly keeps his voice down.

"I wish," she whispers exasperatedly, "but alas, no. My mother."

"Right," he nods, although it makes no sense. "And you're hiding because…?"

"Well, I have these," she huffs desperately and waves a handful of cds in front of his face.

He squints at the labels, but can only make out the top one. "Huh, and I take it Jethro Tull is… contraband?"

"Devil music and all that, yes," she nods vehemently and unloads the cds on him, "and there's also the issue of this," she adds, pulling her jacket open.

"Okay, I don't know what I'm supposed to be seeing, unless, you know, breasts are contraband too?" he smirks, lifting his eyebrows.

"Jesus, you're such a guy," Lane deadpans, "although I'm pretty sure that, if my mother had any say in it, I wouldn't have sprouted any before I hit thirty," she adds thoughtfully as she pulls off her jacket and shoves it onto his hands.

"Okay, I'm still lost here," he frowns.

She shakes her head and points at her chest again. "Don't ogle, just read," she points out with another eye-roll.

"_Girls just wanna have fun?_" He lifts his eyebrows.

"Exactly. An epic line, but not one my mom would appreciate strewn across her daughter… This girl was supposed to stop having fun in the school bathroom after the last period, but a busted pipe sort of derailed that plan so I need to get this off me before I get home," she sighs, and starts peeling the shirt off.

"Wow, you might want to take a breath and think this over," Jess warns, retreating slightly.

"Oh, get over yourself, I have enough layers here to overdress five people," she mumbles through the shirt as she pulls it off her head, shoving it into his hands as well. "Okay, that works," she gives a sigh of relief, straightening out the remaining shirt, and retrieves her jacket. "Can you hold on to those for me for a few days?," she asks, motioning to the shirt and the cds.

"Why? I mean, can't you just do whatever it is you usually do with the clothes, cds and anything else you're not supposed to own?" he asks, frowning.

"Well, usually I take them home, hidden in my back-pack, but now I'm late and that constitutes suspect behavior, so there might be a strip-search," she rolls her eyes. "Come on, just bring them to school tomorrow. You owe me that much."

"I owe you?" Jess chuckles. "For what, exactly?"

"Compensation for severe mental distress," she recites flatly, and folds her hands on her chest.

"Excuse me?" he gapes at her.

"Yeah, see, ever since we were spotted sitting together at lunch on that one historic occasion, there's been a widespread misconception among the female population that we are some sort of friends, and while this apparently hasn't had a profound impact on your life, it has severely complicated mine because I've been wasting endless amounts of oxygen explaining to various borderline obsessed girls that no, in fact I don't know you that well, and no, I'm definitely not the right person to set up blind dates or answer Jess related questions. Thus, severe mental distress, and you're welcome," she rattles off, pulling her jacket on. "You should really just pick one already, and you know, concentrate you energy elsewhere aside from annoying Luke, driving Rory insane, or completing your gnome collection," she adds absently.

"Whoah, driving Rory insane?" he immediately singles out the most interesting bit of information. "Meaning...?"

Lane stalls for a moment, silently cursing her big mouth. "Well, you did wreck her car," she recovers swiftly, lifting her eyebrows.

"Right, the car," he nods, but throws her a quizzical look. "Okay fine, I'll hang on to these until tomorrow," he declares, motioning to the items in his hand.

"Thanks," she smiles and pulls the door open. "Why weren't you at school these last few days, anyway?" she adds as an afterthought.

"Luke authorized a sabbatical," he shrugs. "Hey, you want me to yell at you in the middle of the cafeteria tomorrow or something? Might spare you future mental distress," he offers, smirking.

She chuckles. "Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," she says and closes the door after her.

He shakes his head, chuckling incredulously – _borderline obsessed girls?,_ and heads for the stairs as the diner curtain moves and Luke steps through, cutting him off.

"Jesus, there's more traffic here than at Grand Central Station," Jess mutters to himself incredulously.

"Hey, you're back," Luke states an obvious fact, then lifts his eyebrows. "_Girls just wanna have fun?_ Did a little shopping?"

"It's not mine," Jess grimaces, balling up the shirt.

"So, is pink the new black or something? Haven't had the chance to flip through my Cosmo yet," Luke comments brightly.

"It's not mine," Jess reiterates, frowning.

"And yet you're holding on to it pretty tight," Luke points out casually, fighting back a chuckle.

"It's not mine, it's… Never mind, you wouldn't believe it anyway," Jess rolls his eyes. "Awesome accountant, by the way. Very trust-inspiring."

Luke chuckles, looking through various jars that line the shelves. "You just got back?"

"No, a while ago," Jess says, suddenly remembering the earlier titan clash. "Just in time for the shouting match, actually."

"What?" Luke frowns, then recalls the incident. "Oh, right. Well, it didn't really have anything to do with you," he shrugs it off. "What happened to all the pickles?" he wonders absently.

"Luke, I was standing right there," Jess points to the doorway. "And unless you have another live-in nephew who bears my name and has crashed Rory and her car, I'd say I was pretty much the star of the show."

Luke gives up on his search and turns around. "Yeah okay, so it was a little bit about you. So?"

"So, nothing," Jess says defensively, and balls the shirt up harder. "Or, you know, thanks, I guess" he adds, shrugging.

"Don't mention it, I guess," Luke shrugs back, and returns to the shelf. "Now, you know what happened to the pickles? I swear there were at least twelve jars here last week," he mutters, scratching his head.

Jess chuckles. "They're over there, next to the peppers," he points to a different shelf. "You had me alphabetically arrange the jars after I busted the speaker with Guns of Brixton, remember?"

"Well, The Guns of Brixton I'll never forget," Luke mutters and moves to the shelf in question.

Still chuckling, Jess heads up the stairs and finds the apartment freezing due to the window he left open in the morning; he dumps Lane's shirt and cds on the table and walks over to close it. Looking out, he grips the frame harder as he spots Dean and Rory walking across the square, his hand wrapped around her shoulders as he talks to her; her face features a radiant smile and Jess quickly bolts the window closed and pulls down the blinds, suddenly fighting off a chill that has nothing to do with the weather.

_Borderline obsessed girls…_ Well, he could use a distraction.

_I'll run in the rain till I'm breathless  
When I'm breathless I'll run till I drop, hey  
The thoughts of a fool scattered careless  
I'm just a fool waiting on the wrong block..._

_

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_

_Lyrics used: Fool In The Rain, Led Zeppelin  
_

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_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	14. Of Cake, Coffee and Crushes

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**13. Of Cake, Coffee and Crushes**

Much too quick for comfort, the weekend comes around and brings significant complications for Rory's chosen strategy of avoiding the Stars Hollow public areas aside from the quick darts to and from the bus station. Since the last Jess debacle, she'd pretty much confined herself to the house, listing the cast, the schoolwork and the bad weather as causes for this sudden retreat into the hermit-like lifestyle to all who dared question the decision, with varying levels of success – Lorelai had just cocked an eyebrow and shrugged, but wisely chose not to comment; Dean had been perfectly happy to spend evenings sprawled on the couch as they went through the Stars Wars Saga, one episode a day, but Lane had given her a much too insightful, quizzical look, although she kept her thoughts to herself.

However, the weekend comes, the rains stop and Lorelai wakes up craving pancakes; unable to come up with an excuse that wouldn't raise all kinds of flags and bring about inevitable questions, Rory finds herself en route to Luke's, accompanied by a huge knot in her stomach and chirping Lorelai by her side. Despite the all-consuming jitters, she amazedly listens to herself giggle, banter and laugh with Lorelai over what seems like the longest breakfast in history, all the while casting furtive glances toward the curtained doorway, bracing herself for the moment the curtain will move and produce the messy hair, impossible smirk and smug expression, but mercifully, it never does. On her way out of the diner, she fully exhales for the first time since she left the house, silently commending herself for putting on such an excellent show of perfectly normal behavior, choosing to dismiss a few random studious glances from Luke she'd been unable to decipher.

Hartford comes next, and the knot fades away somewhat as she rummages through the dust-covered, obscure album releases in search for the perfect birthday present for Lane; having found one, she moves over to the bookstore and proceeds to choose one that will pass the scrutiny of Mrs. Kim and can be handed to Lane formally at the afternoon all-Korean tea-party that is being organized to commemorate the event.

The knot returns for a moment when she arrives at Lane's and she unwraps the present, but _In my own words_ by Pope John Paul II earns a curt nod from Mrs. Kim, and Rory unclenches and drifts into absent-minded stupor against a backdrop of Korean chattering, waiting for the festivities to end and for Lane to get released to have some actual fun.

In the meantime, her mind quickly reverts to the same irresolvable issue she'd been rehashing for days, the impossible periodically-kissing-Jess phenomenon. He was right, twice does almost constitute a habit, and it's a ludicrous, illogical, dangerous, exciting, delicious habit she can't afford if she wants to keep her sanity, parts of which she's certain are gone forever already anyway, having slipped out of reach with that first kiss weeks ago. If she puts some effort into it, she can almost justify and rationalize that first kiss, that one really might have been an impulse, she might have been curious and looking for some closure, looking for a way to resolve the latent tension the evening before had created. But the second one… there's just no way to rationalize it. She'd kissed him because he crashed her car? She'd kissed him because he'd reeked of fish? Because she was desperate for a good beard-burn? _God, not even mom could spin this one_, she thinks hopelessly and bows her head as she listens to a Korean grace over a plate of rock hard grain cake. No, she'd somehow kissed him despite the car crashing, fish smell and inevitable beard-burn; none of it mattered when the moment came.

What happened, what exactly happened in that moment, how did that safe distance they'd started at become no distance at all, when did she cross it and why, what is this insane compulsion to touch him, where does it come from and why does it scare her so far out of her wits… The same crazy cycle of unanswerable questions continues to viciously spin its bizarre mind-boggling dance as she goes over that fateful pre-kiss moment in her head over and over again. How is it even possible to do something that you have no intention of doing at all? That moment, it was almost an out-of-body experience, it was like her brain stayed at that safe distance and watched, amazed, as the rest of her just moved toward Jess on its own, driven by some unknown force, and had a few short moments of blatant bliss before the appalled brain finally caught up, reconnected with the rebellious body and restored some sense into it. Sadly though, it was not all the brain's doing, and she reluctantly admits that if there hadn't been that one moment in which he let go of her, the glorified brain might have screamed bloody murder and she probably wouldn't have cared.

The cake poses the same challenge she suspects chewing granite would, but she dutifully smiles at Mrs. Kim and registers occasional grateful and despairing glances from Lane, sitting across the room and suffering through a monologue from one of a dozen elderly aunts; she covertly mouths something that Rory wishfully interprets as 'fifteen minutes' although she supposes it could have just as easily been 'fifty', but she ultimately decides to go for the more optimistic variation and thus picks up the chewing pace.

There's definitely a thing, an absurd, crazy, impulsive, instinctual thing at work between them, the sort of thing that she suspects would generally be resolved by mind-blowing sex, but that particular solution is just not an option at the moment, even though the idea is significantly closer to her after those two kisses than it has ever been after anything she's ever let Dean attempt. There's just nothing remotely as crazy and urgent waking up within when Dean touches her, there's just mild, sporadic flutters that rise occasionally and fade quickly, and she never loses herself in them, but at the same time, she always feels calm and safe, and in control, all sensations ranking high in her perception of what a relationship should be. There's nothing calm or safe or stable or familiar about Jess, nothing certain, nothing predictable, and being in control in relation to him is a thoroughly alien concept. Everything about him is just pure chaos and anarchy of senses, utterly impossible to command or regulate, and she suddenly envisions Jess and Dean fused into a single person. _Perfect, that would be a perfect solution to this whole mess… but you can't have your cake and eat it too_, she reminds herself sadly as she swallows the last bit of actual cake, eternally grateful none of her teeth went with it.

"We've been paroled," Lane descends on her unexpectedly, "so hurry up before the wind changes," she adds and pulls Rory to her feet in a rush.

Not needing to be told twice, Rory finds her jacket and mumbles an obligatory cake-related compliment to , politely skirting the offer to take some leftovers to Lorelai; solemnly promising they'd just take a walk and then go to Rory's house later, she and Lane bolt out of the tea-party and quickly make their way out of the house and down the street.

"Sorry about the cake," Lane cringes once they're definitely out of earshot.

"Well, my jaw needed a workout," Rory chuckles, "and you know, my indigestion will probably benefit from all the healthy ingredients once it gets over the initial shock."

"All your teeth accounted for?" Lane asks with a worried expression. "One of the aunts lost a filling."

Rory frowns. "As far as I can tell, I'm good," she declares, running her tongue across her teeth. "No gaping holes I can determine."

"Okay, good," Lane nods, relieved. "Oh, and by the way, John Paul II? Inspired choice," she chuckles, then softly nudges Rory to the side. "When do I get my real present?"

"It's at my house," Rory laughs, "along with some chocolate cake drowning in whipped-cream."

"Oh, I love you," Lane smiles and grabs Rory under the arm, but gets viciously jerked backwards as Rory suddenly roots to the spot a few steps later, gaping over the square. Puzzled, Lane follows her gaze, and quickly determines the culprits – Jess and Shane are gracing one of the benches, thoroughly wrapped around each other and apparently, completely oblivious to the world around them if the general position and wandering hands are any indication. "Oh God, those two should just get a room already," Lane rolls her eyes, "they just don't stop."

"Don't stop?" Rory echoes blankly, fighting a sudden urge to scratch Shane's eyes out.

"Yeah, it started a few days ago," Lane shrugs, "but I swear, since it did, I don't think I've ever seen them in a different position."

Rory can't think of a comment; actually, she quickly finds she can't really think at all, it's like she's either incapable or unwilling to process this scene that she's witnessing on the mental level, but at the same time, she has absolutely no problem identifying the numerous emotions that she goes through in quick succession – there's shock, hurt, jealousy, anger, and each exponentially outgrows the previous one until the entire crazed souffle tops off with utter fury as she watches the two disentangle themselves and Jess heads for the diner, distinctly disheveled but blissfully Shane-free.

"Let's have coffee," Rory grits through her teeth, starting after him.

"Or, you know, let's not," Lane suggests cautiously, stalling, disturbed by the vicious look and the stone expression. "Let's have cake, and my present, and avoid any rash actions we might regret."

"Sure," Rory nods, "but let's have coffee first," she reiterates, and pulls on Lane's hand.

"Coffee, or Jess's head?" Lane mutters to herself, following reluctantly; Rory either misses the comment or pretends to miss it as she marches them over to the diner at a pace that would put a power-walker to shame.

"Just for the record, I think this is a really, really, really bad idea," Lane declares in a warning tone as they enter the diner and settle at a table.

"Really? Why?" Rory asks flatly as she plays with the menu, shooting daggers at Jess's back at the counter.

Lane rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers in front of Rory's face. "Hey, focus!" she warns, and Rory looks at her. "Why is it a bad idea? Are you serious?" Lane asks incredulously. "You look like you're contemplating murder, and you know, if looks could kill, Jess would have turned into a corpse fifteen times over by now."

"Okay, you're totally misreading this," Rory counters. "I don't care what he does."

"Oh, please," Lane snaps, "I love you, but if you believe that, you're totally delusional."

"Well, I don't," Rory snaps back. "Why would I care?"

Lane rolls her eyes again, but holds back any further comments as the subject of their exchange saunters over with a coffee pot and two mugs; retreating from the direct line of fire, Lane leans back in her chair and prepares to witness what she's certain will be a blowout of massive proportions.

"Coffee?" Jess offers, setting the mugs on the table.

"Sure," Rory says, pulling on an Oscar-deserving impassive expression; Lane refrains to a slight nod and begins a silent countdown to the impending explosion.

"You've been somewhat invisible lately," Jess says to Rory as he fills up their mugs.

"Well, you certainly haven't," she quips quickly. "You put on quite a show outside just a few moments ago," she explains icily as he lifts his eyebrows.

"Huh, I'm surprised you noticed," he smirks.

"Oh please," she rolls her eyes, "even the satellites caught that one."

"Well, what can I say, I'm just that good," he chuckles.

"And just that exhibitionist, apparently," she clips with an eye-roll. "Maybe next time you could do us all a favor and opt for a less public display of your raging hormones."

He folds his hands on his chest. "Or, you could just look away, if it bothers you that much," he suggests, leaning against the neighboring table. "Besides, it's none of your business anyway."

_Okay, one point for Jess_, Lane counts mentally.

"Well, it is, if there's a chance of unexpectedly stumbling upon that nightmare whenever I walk around town," she snaps stubbornly. "And I can't believe there's a girl alive who'd be caught dead making such a show of herself."

_Oh God, I'm going to have to start assigning negative points_, Lane cringes inwardly.

"Oh, unclench, not everyone is as wound up over public opinion as you are, thank God," he bites back. "Shane's great."

"Yeah well, the entire school football team can probably vouch for that one," she clips ironically; Lane closes her eyes and adds another negative.

"Huh, I'm sure you meant that as an insult, but you know, from where I stand, that might be the best thing I heard all week," he smirks casually, shrugging his shoulders.

"Yeah, that figures," she snaps back with a frown.

"You're making an unbelievably big deal out of a pretty average make-out session. I mean, you do have a boyfriend, you can't be completely unfamiliar with the concept," he challenges sarcastically.

"Right, but privacy is definitely a concept you've never heard of," she bites back, eyes narrowing. "And kindly leave me and Dean out of this, there's just no basis for comparison."

"Really?" he retorts, eyebrows rising. "And how's that? I mean, a kiss is just a kiss, right?"

She catches the insinuation, but rolls her eyes anyway. "For one thing, Dean and I have a deep and meaningful connection, and those don't sprout into existence over a few days of groping," she points out icily.

"Well, Shane and I have a somewhat less deep but definitely more physical connection we're both pretty happy with," he bites back, eyes narrowing. "You should try it sometime, I highly recommend the experience," he adds sarcastically.

"Thanks, but I think I'll let Shane enjoy that one," she declines just as sarcastically, "I'm perfectly happy with what I've got."

"Yeah, I remember, you've made that crystal clear," he retorts, voice dripping with irony, "at least as far as proclamations go."

For her part, Lane feels like a spectator at a tennis match, her head swinging this way and that as she watches the verbal balls fly across the table, but the silence that descends after Jess's last line somehow says more than anything else had up to that moment, and she suddenly realizes it's the part that he's not saying that has actually rendered Rory speechless. Looking between the two of them, Lane finds a staring contest in full swing and the tension in the air so palpable she's actually certain that, if she extended her hand, she'd be able to touch it, although it would probably detonate on impact, or at least scorch her fingers. The looks clashing over the table hold a world of wordless conversation, and the silence seems to last a lifetime before Jess slowly straightens up and leans forward, propping himself against the table; right on cue, Rory recoils further into her chair.

"You and I are doing exactly the same thing," he says, pointing between them with the coffee pot. "Regardless of length of the groping periods, you and Dean are just as wrong, or just as right together as Shane and I are, so don't call me on my actions again unless you're ready to have me call you on yours," he warns, frowning, and retreats back to the counter.

"You okay?" Lane asks after a moment, judging Rory's breathing has reverted back to normal.

"Yeah sure, great," Rory replies, a tad over-zealously. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Duh, because you two are a time-bomb just waiting to go off," Lane replies dutifully.

"Yeah, he's just destruction waiting to happen, I know," Rory rolls her eyes and reaches for her coffee.

"Oh no, it's not just him, and definitely not that kind of bomb," Lane shakes her head. "You're just as much a part of the impending explosion, and I'd even say your fuse is significantly shorter than his."

Rory looks at her blankly and Lane rolls her eyes. "Oh come on, there was so much sparks flying across this table that I'm shocked I'm not showing third-degree burns, and it's painfully obvious the very thought of him and Shane gives you an aneurysm, so, you know, just… face the music already."

"There's nothing to face. I love Dean, and Jess is just… annoying," Rory insists defensively, "and keep your voice down!"

"Right, you love Dean. Okay, maybe you do," Lane allows in a whisper. "You love Dean, but annoying or not, you and Jess are crushing on each other so badly that it deserves a novel and subsequent movie rights," she declares, and waves off Rory's protest in the making. "And don't deny it, because if you do, you'll just insult my intelligence, unless you're so deep in denial that you're seriously not aware of what's going on, in which case, here I am, I'm your friend, I love you, and I promise you that you're falling for this guy in an epic, pride-and-prejudice kind of way."

"Okay, now you're seriously over-doing it," Rory protests, but without real conviction.

"I don't get it," Lane shrugs. "I mean, Dean is great, he is an awesome guy, but seriously, did you really think you two were for life? Yeah, breaking up sucks, but staying with him sucks even more if you're this hung up on someone else."

"You don't get it," Rory agrees, shaking her head exasperatedly. "Dean is… familiar, he's safe, he's easy and kind and comfortable and good, and we're great together, I love him for that. Jess is… God, I don't even know what he is, he's infuriating and unpredictable and crazy, and I don't really know anything about him!"

"So, learn," Lane chuckles, "you obviously want to."

"No, I don't," Rory sighs. "What I want is for all of this to end, so I can have my life back."

"I don't think it works that way," Lane points out gently, "it's not really something you can decide."

"Yeah well, I decided it anyway," Rory shrugs.

"Huh, and how's that working for you?" Lane challenges, lifting her eyebrows.

Rory shakes her head and stares into her mug. "It's not," she admits, and steals a glance at the counter, but finds Jess determinedly ignoring her. "Come on, let's go and get your present," she looks back at Lane, pushing her coffee away. "I need chocolate."

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	15. Of Luke, Lemons and Lane

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**14. Of Luke, Lemons and Lane**

"Hey Jess, have you seen -" Luke cuts himself off in the middle of the sentence as he steps into the apartment, mouth dropping open as two figures disentangle and jump off the sofa in a rush, although one moves distinctly faster than the other – so fast, in fact, that she barely utters an incoherent mumble before she's out the door.

"What the hell was that?" Luke turns to Jess, eyes wide.

"Generally, it's called a girl," Jess deadpans, moving to the kitchen.

"Yeah, I kind of figured out that part, even though she disappeared so fast that a blurred image is actually all I had to work with," Luke snaps back. "But let's talk specifics. Who is she?"

"Just a girl," Jess shrugs, pulling a soda from the fridge.

Luke lifts his eyebrows. "Well, does she have a name?"

Jess rolls his eyes. "Shane," he says and pops the soda open.

"Shane," Luke nods, folding his hands on his chest. "So, this Shane… she's your girlfriend?"

"Oh, so she needs a name _and_ a label?" Jess inquires ironically.

"Well, considering the level of cozy and comfortable you two were hitting on my sofa, I'm thinking – yeah, she better have a label," Luke frowns. "So, a girlfriend?"

Jess shakes his head. "Still just a girl," he smirks.

"… who will, eventually, get promoted to a girlfriend?" Luke lifts his eyebrows.

"I don't think that's likely, but you know – never say never," Jess chuckles, leaning against the counter.

Luke shakes his head, and walks over to the table, straddling a chair. "Sit," he motions to the chair opposite.

"I'm good, thanks," Jess smirks.

Luke sighs. "Yeah well, still sit."

Jess rolls his eyes and straddles the opposite chair. "Okay, now what? And just for the record, if you attempt a birds-and-bees lecture, I swear I'll kill myself."

"What are you doing?" Luke asks, scratching his head.

"Right now, bracing myself for the next pearl of wisdom that comes out of your mouth," Jess quips ironically, "and judging by the drum-roll, it's going to be something major."

"No," Luke rolls his eyes, "what are you doing with these girls?"

"What's with the plural? As far as I know, only one was here," Jess smirks.

"Yeah, but there's at least one more," Luke squints at him, "and I'm thinking that one is more than just a girl."

Jess looks at him blankly, and sips on the soda. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Luke shakes his head. "See that window?" he asks, pointing across the room. "It looks out directly over the alley, and it just so happens there was quite a show down there several days ago."

Jess nearly chokes on the soda, but by some miracle, manages to hold on to a nonplussed expression. "Huh, didn't really figure you for a peeper… my mistake," he clips ironically.

"Yeah well, with all the yelling, the whole spectacle was pretty difficult to miss," Luke points out flatly. "And seeing that I was an unwilling witness to that one, and then a few days later, I stumble into another one of the same general scenario, hence the question – what are you doing?"

"Okay, first of all, on the practical level, if you really need me to explain the specifics, then that's probably the saddest thing I've ever heard. Second, on all other levels, it's none of your business, so lay off," Jess warns with a frown.

"Okay, in reference to the practical level – you're an idiot," Luke rolls his eyes. "As far as the other ones go, I don't really care what's going on with this Shane, aside from the fact that you should treat all women with respect regardless of how you choose to label them, but down in that alley, that was Rory, and I definitely care what you do with her, so you can just take your righteous indignation and shove it, because if you mess her up, I swear I'll strangle you with my bare hands," he explains firmly.

"Right, because seeing it's me and her, me messing her up is the only scenario," Jess points out sarcastically.

"Okay, so are you saying it's the other way around?" Luke lifts his eyebrows.

"I'm not saying anything. I'm not even talking about this anymore," Jess snaps and jumps away from the table.

Luke suddenly chuckles, dots connecting. "Oh my God, it is the other way around," he shakes his head incredulously and points a finger at Jess. "This Shane thing, it's just a pathetic attempt to make Rory jealous, or something equally misguided… well, that's probably the saddest thing _I've_ ever heard."

"Okay, you should definitely get your head checked, you're so far into delusion that it warrants a formal diagnosis and a daily cocktail of colorful pills," Jess rolls his eyes.

"It figures, really; I mean, Rory's a great kid," Luke shrugs, completely ignoring the jibe.

"Yeah well, figures you'd think so, she's just as delusional as you," Jess mutters to himself.

"Oh right, this is about that thing when she kisses you twice, but still stays with Dean…," Luke scratches his head, frowning.

Jess leans against the counter and runs his hands through his hair in helpless frustration. "This conversation is a nightmare. I mean, Elm Street is Disneyworld compared to this," he shakes his head incredulously.

"Why would she kiss you, but stay with Dean?" Luke wonders absently.

"Okay, what will it take for you to shut up? Seriously, just name it, whatever you want," Jess asks exasperatedly.

"I got it," Luke announces victoriously.

"I'm leaving," Jess declares with conviction and heads for the door.

"You scared her," Luke declares over his shoulder.

"Right, that's it, I jumped out of the bushes shrieking and waving a stick," Jess clips and pulls on his jacket.

"Well, that's not the exact scenario I had in mind, but you know, on a metaphorical level, that kind of works, too," Luke nods solemnly.

Jess throws his hands up in defeat. "Bye, Luke," he says determinedly and pulls the door open.

"You know, for someone who's generally pretty smart, you're being incredibly stupid about this," Luke turns after him.

Jess slams the door back. "What? What the hell is it you want me to do?" he yells in frustration. "As nauseous as the mere idea makes me, you were there, and provided you're not deaf, you heard what she said, and yeah, the logic of the whole thing is twisted beyond comprehension, but as far as I can tell, there's not really anything I can do to change that!"

"Well, you could just tell her," Luke shrugs.

Jess rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you know, somehow, I really don't think pointing out that she's behaving like a raving lunatic would get me very far, but hey, thanks for the suggestion. I'd be even more grateful if you kept any other ingenious ideas on the subject to yourself and you know, just pretended this whole twilight-zone discussion never happened, okay?" he adds exasperatedly, and grabs hold of the door again.

"No, Einstein, what I meant was, you could just tell her how _you_ feel," Luke deadpans, "as in, use the actual words as opposed to implications and insinuations that require a psychic and a code book to decipher."

"Hey, I've said more than enough," Jess declares flatly.

"Oh, you talked all right, but as far as what you actually said goes, a mime would have divulged more," Luke rolls his eyes. "All you did was call her out on what she did, and challenged her to explain why she did it, but as far as I remember, not a peep came out of you about how you felt about it, so seriously, are you really surprised she's deciding to stay with the guy she actually knows cares about her? Did you actually think she'd just blow an entire relationship away simply because you proved that she wants to kiss you? Because really, if you did, you're as much a raving lunatic as you're making her out to be!"

"Yeah well, groveling is just not my strong suit," Jess points out acidly.

"Right, but you compensate beautifully with your expertise in denial," Luke clips dully.

Jess rolls his eyes. "Okay, I'm sure I'll regret this, but – what?"

"This Shane thing," Luke shrugs, "it won't get you what you want. It's beyond stupid, so just give it a rest. And as far as Rory goes, just get over yourself, risk some of this over-rated dignity you're so stubbornly clinging to and talk to her, because that strategy has a much better chance of succeeding than any other hare-brained scheme you might be hatching right now."

"You know, I'm thinking this raving lunacy thing is definitely genetic," Jess shakes his head, "and since this little Freudian adventure of yours will probably take days to repress, I better get started on that right away. Also, for the sake of my mental health, let's just agree never to revisit this particular nightmare, unless you want me to be traumatized for life."

"Oh well, just remember, nothing ventured, nothing gained," Luke reminds casually.

"Great, from Freud to fortune cookie in a single breath," Jess rolls his eyes and heads out, slamming the door.

…

"Okay, what did you do to this coffee?" Rory squints at Jess over the counter.

"Excuse me?" he squints back.

"Oh, don't give me that innocent look," she rolls her eyes. "Something's wrong with it, I can tell, and since you're the one who brought it over, it's really not a stretch to think you tampered with it, all things considered."

"All things considered?" he lifts his eyebrows. "Such as?"

"Oh you know, your delinquent tendencies, the glowing track record in pranks, the general hostility…" she lists sweetly.

"Oh right, now I remember – just before I brought it over, I sprinkled it with some crushed roaches I keep in the back, next to your voodoo doll that I stick pins into before I go to bed," he clips sarcastically.

"Yeah well, even that scenario is not entirely unbelievable," she grimaces.

"Okay, you really need professional help," he rolls his eyes, "since latent hallucinations have apparently crossed over into full-blown paranoia."

"I know coffee, and something's definitely wrong with this one," Rory frowns, "and getting back at me through that, well, that's just low, even for you."

He glares at her, then shakes his head. "You're insane. Go find a couch to lay on, and leave me alone, I'm trying to work here."

"Hey, I'm a paying customer, you don't get to just dismiss me if I have a complaint," she snaps viciously.

"Fine," he rolls his eyes. "You want another coffee?"

"Definitely, but I also want to know what you did to this one," she retorts flatly. "It doesn't taste right."

"Well, I have no idea how that's possible, since it came from the same pot like all the others, and no one else is complaining," he waves his hand around the diner. "Of course, there's always the possibility that your general sour mood has affected your taste, in which case this coffee won't be the last stingy thing you have to swallow, but hey, that's all you," he adds sarcastically.

"I'm not in a sour mood," she bites back indignantly.

"Oh please, you've been looking like someone's force fed you a lemon for a week," he smirks. "Was it Dean? Trouble in paradise?"

"No, no trouble, thanks for asking, though I didn't think you cared," she clips, frowning.

"Well, you were right, I don't," he shrugs.

"Huh, yet you still managed to spot the proverbial lemon in my mouth," she lifts her eyebrows.

He rolls his eyes, grabs a cup and makes a show of pouring her a fresh coffee just as Luke rounds the counter and dumps some plates in the sink.

"Oh crap, I forgot to tell you, I somehow switched the pots for the last batch, so what you have there is decaf, and the regular is in the red pot over there," Luke explains in passing and quickly moves on with two plates of scrambled eggs.

Jess puts down the pot, gets the red one, pours another cup, then props himself against the counter and lifts his eyebrows at Rory.

"See? I told you something was wrong with it," she holds her own, although significantly deflated.

"Oh yeah, I stand corrected," he smirks, "but you were also pretty vehement about the fact it was my doing, out of… what was it? Oh right, something about getting back at you? What for, exactly?"

She rolls her eyes, grabs the fresh cup and marches away, fuming silently.

"Hey, don't choke on that lemon," he yells after her, and dumps the offensive cup of decaf into the sink.

…

Some fifteen minutes into lunch break, Jess loses most of his interest in Shane's various parts, and while he pretty much continues doing what he was doing while he was still committed to the maneuvers, he lets his eyes roam over the courtyard over the blond head. The scene is pretty much the same as it is every day – the various groups huddle together, most probably slamming each-other; Dean is nowhere to be seen and the fact makes the day slightly brighter. On the second pass, an interesting sight presents itself, and he swiftly gets rid of Shane and heads across the courtyard.

"Hey," he says, and slides onto a bench.

"Okay, the deal was you'd scream and holler at me, not be my lunch buddy," Lane reminds him. "I don't really think this is sending out the message I was hoping for."

"Yeah well, considering the whole Shane development, I think you're safe," he smirks, shrugging.

"Ah, right, the Shane thing," she nods. "How's that going?"

"Okay," he shrugs, "keeps me occupied."

"Aww, that's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," Lane gushes ironically.

"Yeah well, romance is highly over-rated," he smirks.

"Or you know, you're just looking for it in the wrong place," Lane quips cryptically and goes back to her egg-salad.

"Or that," he allows, trying to think of a way to steer the conversation toward the topic he actually wants to address without coming off too eager, or desperate, or lame in the process, but no viable strategies present themselves. He really should have thought this through.

For her part, Lane chews on her salad, at first perfectly content to feign stupidity and watch him squirm, but the scene gets old after a while, and she finally sticks her fork into the salad with a sigh and props her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her palms. "Okay, I'm getting bored, so spill," she challenges.

"Spill? Spill what?" he frowns at her, completely unprepared for such a direct challenge.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please… You know, I've had my suspicions before, but after that verbal match at the diner, it's beyond obvious you've got a thing for Rory, and with me being the best friend and all, you're clearly here to elicit information, so you know, get on with it already."

"Huh, and what if I told you you're wrong?" he counters by reflex.

"Well, am I?" she challenges; no answer is forthcoming, and she shrugs. "Look, I'll make this really easy for you – you're welcome to waste time and energy convincing me I'm wrong and coming up with elaborate schemes to find out what you want to know without really having to ask the questions, and, you know, who knows, maybe you're just good enough to manage that. On the other hand, you could just dispense with the theatrics, save us both some time, admit to something I know is true anyway and get the answers you're after in a much quicker and significantly less complicated manner," she suggests reasonably, then chuckles slightly. "In a way, I'm giving you a free pass, and I hear you're familiar with those, so just take it while I'm in the mood."

It's just too tempting an offer to pass up, and so Jess represses his protesting ego and relents, saving the inevitable self-loathing for later.

"Is she in love with Dean?" he dives in, head-first.

"That's what she decided," Lane shrugs noncommittally.

"That wasn't my question," he points out flatly.

She chuckles and shakes her head. "Okay, fair enough… I'll go with no."

"Then why on earth would she decide something like that? How do you even decide something like that?", he wonders incredulously.

"That's two questions," she warns.

"And both perfectly valid," he shrugs.

"Well, I have no idea on the second one," she shrugs, "and on the first one… I guess she just thinks it's easier."

He frowns. "As opposed to?"

"Well, dealing with you, for one thing," she deadpans.

Makes sense, he admits reluctantly. "Okay, and the other thing?"

She shrugs. "Dealing with herself, I guess."

His eyebrows lift. "Meaning?"

"Meaning she's Rory, she likes things ordered and organized and defined," Lane sighs, as if she's stating a fact so obvious it doesn't really require to be mentioned at all. "She doesn't really do chaos all that well, and you know, you're sort of a living materialization of the concept."

"Gee, thanks," he grimaces.

"Hey, I'm just answering the questions," she remarks flatly.

Amazingly, that's true. "Okay, so what do I do?" he blurts out, and instantly cringes. _Smooth, real smooth, and not at all desperate._

"Oh, I can't touch that one," Lane shakes her head.

"Can't or won't?" he asks, catching something off in her tone.

She shrugs. "Fine, won't."

"Why not?"

"Because, my mission here is to help you understand, not help you, period," she explains brightly.

He frowns, confused. "So there's a difference?"

"Oh yeah, a significant one," she nods with conviction.

He shakes his head. "I don't get it."

She shrugs, smiling. "Yeah well, not everyone can reach quite that far."

He chuckles. "Did you just insult me?"

"Okay, seriously, that's the part you want to focus on?" she wonders ironically.

"Good point…," he smirks. " So, no help on what to do?"

"Nope," she shakes her head. "But I'll tell you what you're doing wrong."

"Yeah, because I never get tired of hearing that," he remarks in a dull tone.

"I could just eat my salad and pretend you're not here," Lane points out the obvious.

Jess rolls his eyes, admitting defeat. "Okay fine, what am I doing wrong?"

"Well, this whole Shane thing is a bust, unless you get some twisted kick out of verbal sparring," she declares. "Also, you can't… bully her out of Dean and into yourself."

"I'm not bullying her," Jess protests, instantly annoyed.

"Well, I'm clearly not talking wedgies and stealing lunch money here," Lane rolls her eyes, "I'm talking rubbing her face in those kisses that were all her doing and presumably, none of yours," she explains sarcastically.

Jess shakes his head in disbelief. "Okay, so I basically have one leverage here, and now you're telling me I can't use it?"

She shrugs. "It's counter-productive, and it will blow up in your face. Wave it in her face one too many times, and she'll take off on the opposite tangent just to prove you wrong. It's a Gilmore thing."

"Jesus, how stubborn is she?" Jess cringes.

"Extremely," Lane sighs.

"Okay, on a scale from one to ten, extremely would rank at…?" he trails off, eyebrows lifting.

"Uhm, twenty-one," Lane replies flatly.

Jess rolls his eyes. "Okay, and how stubborn is she without you embellishing for dramatic effect?"

Lane chuckles. "Seventeen."

"So basically, she could keep this up forever?" Jess surmises dully.

Lane nods. "She could, but she's not going to." He throws her a disbelieving look, and she shrugs. "She's also smart, and she'll put two and two together, in time."

"In time, that's great…," he deadpans. "And just how long will this epiphany take?"

"That depends," she shrugs again.

"On?"

"Well, you, mostly," she declares cryptically.

"And here I was worried you were going to be vague," he clips sarcastically.

"Yeah well, vague or not, it's all I've got time for. The bell's about to go, so we're done here," Lane proclaims, packing up what's left of the egg salad into a plastic bag. Jess watches, scratching his head absently, wondering why she would tell him everything she's just told him, but no theories come to mind.

"Hey Lane," he calls after her reluctantly; she turns around and squints at him. "Why did you do this?"

She walks back and leans against the table, folding her hands on her chest. "Because, Rory's my friend and she's great and I want her to be happy, and on some freakish, twisted level I really feel you'd be good for her, even if she hasn't quite figured that part out yet herself."

"And what if I'm just the pariah everyone else is making me out to be?" he smirks.

"Yeah, you know, at first, I actually wanted to jump on that band-wagon when it rolled into town, but somehow, I just don't get that satanic vibe off you that everyone else seems to be picking up," she shrugs. "Sorry."

He chuckles. "Well, if it means anything, you're right."

"Oh, I'm usually right when it comes to other people and their lives," she quips easily. "It's just my own that I regularly screw up."

"Yeah well," he clears his throat. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. And I don't mean that solely as a figure of speech. As far as history is concerned, this conversation never happened," she warns sternly, walking away again.

"Fine by me," he chuckles, shaking his head, and looks around the courtyard again; his eyes instantly trip over Dean, and the chuckle quickly turns into a frown.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	16. Of Spring, Subtitles and Epiphanies

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**15. Of Spring, Subtitles and Epiphanies**

Life sucks, Rory concludes jadedly as she kisses her mother goodbye in Richard and Emily's driveway, waving her off to evening school; the jeep's tail-lights disappear around the corner, and she slowly makes her way to the bus stop. There's spring in the air, trees have broken out in their pale green dresses of the season, and it somehow seems universally unfair that life should suck in the spring, especially since it always used to be her best season. Not so this spring; ever since the snow melted, things have somehow, inexplicably, spiraled from tolerable to bad and then worse, and at present, they seem to be determinedly heading for unbearable.

The general decline started around the time Jess began frolicking around town with Shane plastered all over him, and at the time, she could barely imagine anything worse than the random cold showers and stomach flips those sightings induced. Seeing him with her literally made her sick, seeing him without her made her want to kill him, and the combination of the two provided for a strained relationship littered with squabbles that were beyond exhausting, but somehow unavoidable. Even when she'd sternly direct herself to be civil to him, the resolve would melt into oblivion once they came face to face, and the whole twisted bickering dance would begin anew. She hates these fights, she hates the fact they've somehow become their standard and she can't understand why and when it became impossible to have a normal conversation, especially since she misses those conversations so badly she sometimes feels like a hardcore addict suffering through severe withdrawal symptoms. And these fights, they're just ludicrous and rise over the most meaningless, insignificant things, and even though she usually can't believe she's actually saying the words, she hears them coming out of her mouth anyway and clings to them with fanatic determination, despite the fact that on the inside, she just wants to scream and bang her head against the nearest doorway.

Somewhere around the time her cast came off, she also began to gradually resent any physical contact with Dean, and kissing him suddenly shifted from a generally pleasurable experience into a tedious obligation. Somehow, every time he touched her, her mind would see fit to grace her with flashbacks of Jess's kisses and offer a vivid catalog of feelings she was missing out on, so kisses from Dean quickly became nothing more than miserable reminders of kisses they could never be and feelings they failed to produce.

Rain comes in sporadic drops, but each seems to hold a bucket of water, and she covers the last few steps to the bus stop in a run; once under cover, she pushes back the hair that sticks to her face and sits down, resenting the rain, resenting spring and resenting life in general. She doesn't know how long she stares at the heavy drops exploding on the sidewalk, but the fascination ends with a loud honk that makes her wince. Squinting through the now biblical shower, she makes out the truck shape; the window rolls down unceremoniously and the familiar knot in her stomach sprouts into existence with a vengeance.

"You want a ride?" Jess asks lightly.

It takes her a few seconds to manage a nod, and few more to gather her bag and her wits; Jess pushes the door open and she makes a run for it, escaping into safety still fairly dry, face and hair notwithstanding. Jess's blood rushes obligingly at the delicious sight, and it takes some effort to look away and focus on the road again.

"Thanks," she says breathlessly, once settled in the seat, and wipes the rain off her face.

"Sure," he shrugs, and kicks the truck into gear. "Friday night dinner?" he inquires with a smirk.

"Yeah," she nods, venturing a smile. "You?"

"Movies," he replies.

"Huh," she squints, "alone?"

He shrugs. "It was Almodovar, so…"

"What, subtitles are too much of a challenge for Shane?" Rory clips on usual, idiotic reflex, and instantly wants to bite her tongue. _And here we go again…_

"I don't know. Don't really care either," he declares flatly, determined not to get into another verbal battle.

"Well, there's a catchy slogan for a meaningful relationship," she points out ironically. _Why do I always do this? I don't want to do this._

"Right, like you'd know," he rolls his eyes, determination fading quickly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she challenges, flaring up instantly.

"Oh I'm sorry, did I not say that in English?" his eyebrows lift over an infuriating expression of feigned innocence. "You need subtitles?"

"Well, you know, at least I'd be able to read them," she snaps viciously, "and the fact that I know Dean would too is part of the whole meaningful relationship extravaganza."

"Oh, I have no doubt you know his feelings on subtitles," Jess slights, sneering, " because really, such a life-and-death issue must have been part of the fifty-page questionnaire you doubtlessly had him fill out when you two first met. I mean, there had to have been some sort of list you could check off, cross out, dissect, analyze and assign pros and cons to before you determined the guy was qualified to become a part of this_ meaningful relationship_," he discounts ironically, air quoting but grabbing the steering wheel back quickly as he squints through the rain into the darkness ahead as they leave the Hartford lights behind.

"Yeah well, I have a brain and I choose to use it," Rory bites back with a vengeance, but cringes on the inside, fighting a sudden wave of nausea.

"Abuse it is actually the phrase you're looking for," he points out icily, cranking the windshield wipers up a notch.

"Oh, so now I think too much? Well, good thing you went with Shane then, no fear of that happening there," she deadpans, shrugging. _God, how do I stop this?_

He shakes his head in annoyance. "Jesus, you're obsessed. Maybe you should go out with her," he suggests , taunting.

"I'm not obsessed. I couldn't care less about Shane," Rory snaps swiftly.

"Huh, yet somehow, she comes out of your mouth at painfully regular intervals. I mean, even I don't think about her that much," Jess points out sarcastically.

"Well, that actually figures, I seriously doubt there's much food for thought there," she declares in a flat tone.

"Oh right, whereas Dean is a constant mental challenge," he sneers scornfully.

"Right, and who's obsessed now? You seem to think about him more than I do," she paraphrases his own words with unabashed glee.

"You know, I actually think that's true, because I seriously doubt you spare the guy more than a stray thought," he shrugs coolly, and she fights a sudden urge to kick him. Her wild mental search for an appropriate response suddenly gets interrupted as the truck makes a strange, strangled sound, then gives an abrupt jerk, followed by disturbing engine silence.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Jess rolls his eyes and steers to the left; the momentum and the wet surface carry them to the side of the road where he attempts to restart the engine. It stubbornly stays silent. Frustrated, he slams the dashboard and reclines in his seat, rubbing his forehead. "Great, this is just great..."

"Maybe it's just a flat tire," Rory offers reasonably.

"Okay, newsflash, Madame Curie, if we busted a tire in this weather, we would now be in a ditch, probably unconscious with fractured skulls or worse… which, come to think of it, sounds pretty good right now, at least the unconscious bit," he snaps viciously. "Just give me your phone," he adds with a sigh.

"Uhm, well, I don't have it," she proclaims, suddenly preoccupied with her fingernails.

"Excuse me?" he gapes at her. "You take that thing with you when you take out the trash, but now you don't have it?"

"Hey, my mom left hers at home, so I let her have mine," she bites back angrily.

"Of course you did," he shakes his head dully, propping his forehead against the steering wheel; Rory folds her hands on her chests and stubbornly stares out into the rain. The silence stretches, the knot in her stomach pulls together tighter as the tiny space around seems to shrink with every breath; the usual tension that comes with being so close to him is almost palpable now that there are no verbal battles to provide a vent. Overwhelmed and unnerved by it all, she turns on the radio, looking for something to break this vicious circle.

_...Curtains fall, fashions fade, an endless summer over,  
another tide to launch an autumn moon over the dunes...  
There must be a better way to pull a whole apart,  
To keep a world from caving in,  
Another way to while away from you, frozen and blue...  
Close your weary eyes, until the wintertime  
But every time we turn away, it surges like a tidal wave..._

"So what, we're just going to sit here?" she asks exasperatedly, quickly realizing the music actually makes the whole situation worse.

"Huh, if you have a better idea, I'm open to suggestions," he rolls his eyes.

"Well, you could at least go take a look and see if you can figure out what happened," she suggests with a shrug, concentrating hard to keep her tone in check.

"Okay, so you're obviously confusing me with your 'look-I-built-you-a-car' boyfriend," he clips, annoyed. "Sorry to disappoint, but I just never developed the required fascination for tool-belts and grease."

"Right, and God forbid you'd try to actually use your brain and even attempt to find a solution," she snaps back, momentarily forgetting her previous resolution.

"Hey, no one in their right mind would go dig under the hood in this weather," he grits through his teeth, eyes narrowing.

"Well, Dean would," she clips vindictively, and instantly regrets her big mouth when faced with a murderous look and a stone expression; the staring contest continues for a few long seconds before he exits the truck without a word and slams the door behind him. _God, I'm such an idiot_, she wails inwardly, hitting her forehead against the dashboard in helpless frustration, as if that might help knock some sense into her head. Finally admitting that this is unlikely to actually solve anything, she takes a deep breath and follows him out into the rain.

"Well, I'm soaked and, shockingly, the engine's still dead, so unless you have any other bright ideas, I'd sort of like to get out of this natural disaster and keep resenting this whole abysmal situation in somewhat drier conditions," he scowls at her as she rounds the truck.

The slight takes a while to register, because the wet hair and the wet shirt just easily take precedence over any other incoming stimuli, and somehow, not even the decidedly furious and resentful expression can diminish the explosion of flutters that occurs within her at the sight. "Oh God, I hate this!" she yelps desperately, blindly kicking the nearest tire.

"Yeah well, as incredible as it may sound, I can actually think of more than a few things I'd rather be doing right now as opposed to being stuck out here with you and your wonderful temper," he snaps back, slamming the hood down.

"I'm not talking about the stupid truck breaking down, genius, I'm talking about this, me and you, and these twisted fights!" she blurts out desperately, suddenly too exhausted to fight both him and herself. "It's driving me crazy, I can't do it anymore!"

The unexpected twist catches him completely off guard and incapable to change direction on such short notice. "Huh, you could have fooled me! Every time I lay eyes on you, you go off on me like a lunatic!" he sneers with annoyance.

"Right, while you just sit there, calmness personified… You're just as much a part of this as I am," she snaps back, resenting the decidedly higher-than-normal pitch of her voice.

"Well, what the hell do you expect me to do? Sit there quietly and smile? Nod like an idiot? Take a bow and thank you?" he retorts sarcastically.

"I don't know!" she yells exasperatedly, balling her fists in frustration. "This is not what I want, I don't want things to be like this!"

"Then what? What do you want?" he shouts back, royally pissed off at the truck, but infinitely more pissed off at her and that rain that somehow makes her look… well, pretty much gorgeous and utterly kissable.

"Oh, Jesus, I can't do this," she chokes out after a pained moment of silence, pushing the wet hair back and retreating miserably.

"Oh come on, Rory, it's a simple enough question!" he steps after her, the words escaping somewhat louder and more insistent than he intended.

"It's not!" she yells in frustration, rounding on him again. "It's not a simple question, Jess, it's a huge, horrible, complicated question that I can't answer truthfully!"

"Why? Why the hell is that so hard for you?" he yells back, just as frustrated.

"Because, because if I did, I'd have to tell you that what I want is for you to kiss me, that's all I want, it's all I can think about every time I see you! That's what I want, and I hate that because I know, I know I'll regret it, but I still can't help it and it's driving me insane!" she blurts out desperately and recoils instantly, appalled she let the words out, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow her, but at the same time, feeling a twisted sense of relief, even though she can't bring herself to look at him.

For his part, Jess is eternally grateful she's fixating on the puddles beneath her feet because he's certain he's wearing a decidedly Mr. Bean-like expression that will take a while to shake off. The outward showing signs aside, he definitely feels like he's been hit over the head with a brick, and had his processing capabilities diminished accordingly. It's not so much what she said, as much as it is the fact that she said it at all; the mind boggles and no appropriate comebacks present themselves until something Luke said creeps in and suddenly makes sickening sense."You're scared of me," he frowns, finally getting a grip.

"Of course I'm scared!" she explodes instantly, looking back at him. "I have no idea how to deal with any of this, these feelings are completely out of my control, they make no sense, the whole thing is just… it's insane! And just when I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse, you go off and start groping what-her-name and God, just seeing that makes me sick, it literally makes me nauseous and I want to kill you for that!" she adds furiously, wiping the rain off her face with a vengeance.

"Hey, you've barely had a week's worth of that particular nausea, okay?" he yells back, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I've had the pleasure of watching you crawl over Dean since the beginning of time, so really, you don't have to explain just how sick it feels, because trust me, I know!"

Her eyes widen. "You do?" she echoes blankly.

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, you can't be serious!"

"Well, how the hell am I supposed to know what you're feeling?" she snaps, flaring up again in a heartbeat.

"I don't know, the same way I knew what you were feeling!" he bites back just as furiously, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"Well, that was hardly rocket science, considering I practically made a habit of launching myself at you! Correct me if I'm wrong, but as far as I remember, you never went quite that far around the bend!" she yells in infinite frustration and folds her hands on her chest to refrain from strangling him.

_And another point for Luke,_ his mind sings out through the chaos of thoughts, although he's got no idea why it chooses to remember that particular detail right now, as true as it may be. Evicting Luke from his head, he stares at her glowering at him for a long moment while he searches for an appropriate response. Somewhere within all the chaos, a sudden epiphany strikes, suggesting the situation has actually spiraled beyond words a long while ago; within the next second, he steps forward, pulls her closer and kisses her, tangling his hands in the dripping hair.

For a moment, she stands rigid like an ice sculpture that smells of rain and vanilla, and it takes some gentle coaxing for her lips to part; once they do, it comes with a soft whimper, accompanied by somewhat cautious enthusiasm that keeps her hands folded against her chest. He ignores the stiffness, choosing to concentrate on the decidedly opposite signals her mouth is sending out, and trails a hand down her back, drawing her closer. Another whimper escapes at the gesture, the hands unfold and sneak around him instead, suddenly gripping as tightly as his are, and for the first time, he actually feels her relax and melt against him, making this kiss into something infinitely more meaningful than the previous two hit-and-run experiences had been. Strangely, as significantly less urgent and hectic as this new variation is, being primarily gentle, soft and sweet, it still brings about the same blood-rush and sensual chaos, only it now somehow extends beyond the physical and taps into emotions with mind-boggling ease. Suddenly, just holding her is just as big a thrill as kissing her is, and when her forehead sinks against his shoulder a few feverish moments later, he doesn't even regret the kiss ending in the face of this new overwhelming feeling that takes over instead – he just grips her tighter and holds her closer, silently registering the sweet, short breaths that dissolve against his neck.

Rory stands perfectly still, absently noticing her breath comes in perfect unison with the pulse rhythm that beats at the side of his neck, listening quietly as they both slow down gradually, feeling weirdly safe and absurdly calm nestled against him like this, completely content never to move again. There's a world out of his arms that needs facing, and it doesn't seem fair, seeing that she'd just finally faced an inner world she'd been running from stubbornly ever since it sprouted into existence. It was a long and exhausting run, one that left her completely drained and half out of her mind, one that she can't begin to justify now that everything she'd been running from has finally caught up with her in all its glorious reality of feelings, blatantly demonstrating ignoring those feelings would be as pointless and as futile as fighting proverbial windmills. All of it feels just too right and too good to pass up, and she clings both to him and this heavenly feeling like they will both disappear into thin air if she lets go.

"You know, eventually, we'll have to face each other," he murmurs against her ear, caressing her head gently; the warm breath evokes familiar flutters and she holds him tighter.

"Not yet," she mumbles into his shoulder, her heartbeat getting away from her again.

"If we stay out here much longer, we're practically asking for pneumonia," he chuckles softly; she shrugs and makes no comment, and a chill runs through him. "Are you planning another great escape?" he asks, his stomach flipping at the very idea.

The question has an unexpected effect, and she looks up at him quickly, eyes wide and slightly fearful, but sparkling nonetheless. "No," she says simply. "No escape."

He swallows a gigantic sigh of relief and pushes back her hair. "Okay then, so how about if we have the forthcoming serious discussion inside the truck?" he smiles a genuine smile, and gets one in return.

It makes sense, and she lets go of him sadly. "God, when did you become so reasonable," she mocks, stepping away.

"Probably around the same time you took off on an opposite tangent," he shrugs, smirking.

Exchanging somewhat goofy smiles, they each begin to round the truck on their respective sides when headlights appear around the bend on the road, flashing them into blindness; as they blink against it, disoriented, brakes shriek madly and the car pulls up behind them, screeching to a halt. Squinting into the headlights, they hear two consecutive doors slamming, followed by two shapes wading through the rain towards them, one large and flannel-clad, the other smaller and slightly off-balanced by heels.

"Jess?"

"Luke?"

"Rory?"

"Mom?"

* * *

_Lyrics used: Sleep All Summer, The National and St. Vincent  
_

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	17. Of Cars, Confessions and Conversations

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

_Okay, I know it's been a while since the last update, but life has been crazy and free time has been really scarce, but hopefully that's over and I'll be able to update regularly again :)_

* * *

** 16. Of Cars, Confessions and Conversations**

"Are you sure she can do this?" Jess lifts his eyebrows at Luke as he climbs into the truck and pulls the door closed.

"Do what?" Luke wonders absently, squinting ahead into the rain, waiting for the jeep's taillights to come on.

"The Macarena, obviously," Jess clips, annoyed; Luke bestows him with a blank look and Jess rolls his eyes. "This whole towing project," he explains, motioning out into the rain and the cord stretching between the two cars.

"Well, maybe not so much Lorelai, but I have faith in the jeep," Luke shrugs coolly.

"Great, now I feel better," Jess deadpans, "since you've obviously taken into account her somewhat questionable maneuvering skills."

"Hey, you want to go over there and supervise?" Luke motions toward the jeep. "Because I have no problem with that. By all means, get over there, send Rory back here, and then explain to Lorelai you're there to make sure that she doesn't mess up."

Jess deflates instantly and makes no comment; Luke chuckles and shakes his head. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

….

"Okay, spill," Lorelai turns to Rory as soon as she pulls the jeep door closed. "You, Jess, stranded on the side of the road on a Friday night… how did that happen? And more importantly, _why_ did it happen?"

"I'm breaking up with Dean," Rory blurts out breathlessly, wincing slightly at the shocked expression that quickly spreads across her mother's face. "I'm sorry, I know what I'm about to say is like… the original sin or something in your universe, but this Jess thing… it's just… I'm just… I can't help it," she continues anxiously, wringing her fingers. "I can't pretend anymore, and I can't ignore it without making myself miserable, and I'm tired of being miserable."

"Okay, first of all – and I'm going to try really hard not to sound too condescending when I say this," Lorelai frowns, "- you have no idea what misery is. Although, if you really are dead set on this Jess thing, I'm guessing you'll learn soon enough."

"So, I'll learn," Rory counters exasperatedly. "I don't care, I'm fine with that!"

"Yeah, but I'm not. You're my kid, and sadly, there'll probably be numerous opportunities in life for you to be truly miserable, but not now, not yet. Now, you're sixteen, and you're supposed to be happy."

"But I'm not happy, Mom. I haven't been happy for a while now, not really," Rory says sadly, shrugging her shoulders. "I've been confused, and conflicted, and nervous, and angry, and God knows what else, but I haven't been happy."

Lorelai gives her a long, studios look. "Yeah, I know," she sighs and shakes her head in defeat.

"You do?" Rory gapes at her, surprised.

Lorelai rolls her eyes. "Of course I do. You're my kid, I know the meaning behind every expression, gesture or twitch that appears on your face, even when I don't know the reasons behind them," she declares with unwavering certainty. "This Jess thing, it's not really a surprise," she continues with a shrug. "I actually saw it coming, but I just resented the scenario so much that it was just easier to ignore it and hope it will go away."

"Well, it didn't," Rory says matter-of-factly. "He's here, I'm here, this thing between us – whatever it is – is very much here too, so… " she trails off uncertainly and shrugs.

"I still resent it," Lorelai warns unapologetically.

"I know," Rory sighs. "But I guess I'd rather have you know about it and resent it, than have to hide it from you altogether." She glances at Lorelai and dares a small smile. "I think I should get some brownie points for that, at least," she points out off-handedly.

"Yeah well, thank God for small comforts," Lorelai mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

"And, you know, if you could just put aside for one second that disastrous encounter you and Jess had on our porch and not base your entire opinion of him on that, maybe you'd be able to see a portion of what I see in him, and this whole thing wouldn't seem so horrible," Rory says imploringly. "I mean, I know he's sorry for that whole… incident."

"Oh really?" Lorelai chuckles. " Did he tell you that?"

"Well, no, not in so many words. He's not really good at that," Rory says uncertainly and Lorelai gives her a skeptical look. "But I just… sort of know anyway."

"Oh, so there's mind-melding at work here… Lovely, I can't tell you how thrilled I am to hear that your brains are in such a frightening sync."

"You're being much too harsh on him," Rory counters stubbornly.

"Okay, you know what? I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but those pink glasses that are obstructing your vision right now are just not something you can force on anyone else."

"Fine," Rory says exasperatedly, throwing her hands up. "I give up. Hate him if you're so dead-set on it."

"Resent, not hate," Lorelai corrects her quickly.

"Oh, excuse me for missing the distinction," Rory rolls her eyes.

"Well, it's an important distinction, I actually take great pride in not hating anyone."

Rory frowns. "I thought you hated Bush."

"Everyone hates Bush," Lorelai deadpans.

"Yeah, okay, good point," Rory concedes. "Anyway, if you really can't help resenting Jess, fine. I guess I'll just have to live with that."

"Well, you've sort of wrecked the fun in it with this new development. I mean, if I'm reading between the lines right – and I know I am, because I'm just unusually talented for that kind of thing – I can't really resent the guy you're about to start dating," Lorelai points out dejectedly.

"Really?" Rory asks brightly.

"Yeah, it would seriously complicate things. And besides, regardless of how I feel about him, I still love you, and that sort of evens things out."

"Okay, that sounds…promising, but I don't know what it really means, in practice," Rory frowns.

Lorelai sighs. "Well, for my part, it means I'll be… civil… to him. For your part, it means you'll be… careful. Extremely. Picture a nun, if you will, minus the habit and the wimple."

"Okay, that's some powerful imagery and you know, point taken and all, but… you do know that's not really feasible, right?" Rory points out in a small voice, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks.

"Yeah, sadly, that's true," Lorelai sighs again. "But, you know, just promise me you won't… do… anything in a rush, okay?"

"What? No, of course I won't do… anything… in rush. Or otherwise," Rory counters indignantly, but the blush still flourishes over her cheeks with a vengeance.

"Okay, good, that's good," Lorelai nods emphatically, but her tone doesn't quite reach the same level of certainty, and for a moment, they both choose to silently examine various details of the jeep's dashboard.

"So… we're good?" Rory asks uncertainly, glancing back up.

"Me and you? Yeah, we're good," Lorelai sighs dramatically, but her lips curve upwards a moment later. Rory catches the change and smiles back.

"How about you and Jess, are you good?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

"Ugh," Lorelai rolls her eyes, "maybe 'good' is kind of a stretch there." Rory gives her a frown, and Lorelai throws her hands up in defeat. "Okay, how's this? I'll make as much of an effort as he does. That's the best I can give you."

"I think I can live with that," Rory smiles, and throws her hands around her mother's neck. "Thanks," she murmurs into Lorelai's hair, feeling a huge weight has lifted somewhere inside.

"Sure," Lorelai smiles, and plants a small kiss on top of her head before she reclines back into her seat. "Okay, now go and get Luke."

"What? Why?" Rory gapes at her, surprised.

"Why?" Lorelai's eyebrows lift. "What, did you really expect me to drive with that giant thing hooked to the rear bumper? Are you out of your mind?"

"Me? Twenty minutes ago, you were insisting you could do it! You couldn't get the two of them inside that truck fast enough!" Rory says exasperatedly, pointing back at the truck, barely visible through the rain.

"Well, twenty minutes ago, my first priority was to get them out of the way so I could talk to you," Lorelai points out coolly.

"Oh my God, you're a regular Keyser Söze," Rory chuckles in disbelief.

"Right, and the fact you're only figuring that out now makes you…?" Lorelai trails off quizzically.

"…normal?" Rory offers with a shrug.

"Not quite what I was going for, but sure," Lorelai shrugs. "Okay, so Luke. Get going."

"I'm not going out there," Rory shakes her head.

"Why not?" Lorelai frowns.

"Well, since it was your brilliant scheme that's responsible for having the two of them wait out there for twenty minutes for something that will never happen, I think it's only fair you get to tell them that," Rory shrugs indifferently.

"Fine," Lorelai rolls her eyes and pushes the door open. "But just so you know, when you pull that self-righteous bit, you sound so much like my mother it really creeps me out," she adds in a breath and darts out into the rain.

…

"What were you two doing out here, anyway?" Luke asks in what is supposed to be a casual tone, but it comes out sounding much too rehearsed.

"Bird watching," Jess replies dully, wishing for a cigarette.

"Of course," Luke nods, completely unfazed. "So, did you see anything… memorable?"

"Oh yeah, " Jess rolls his eyes. "Owl mating rituals. Fascinating stuff."

"Well, as long it was just the owls… mating," Luke cringes, rubbing his eyes. "What the hell is taking so long?" he mumbles to the windshield in exasperation, squinting through the rain.

The tap on the window comes first, followed by the door opening, and Lorelai materializes through a curtain of rain.

"Hey," she says breathlessly, pushing the hair off of her face.

"Hey," Luke echoes quizzically.

"So, a funny thing," Lorelai frowns, propping her elbow against the door. "I'm thinking maybe you should drive the jeep after all."

"Okay, my hearing must be impaired or something, because when I mentioned that earlier, you gave me a feminist rant of monumental proportions, so I know I can't be hearing you correctly now," Luke points out ironically, and turns to Jess. "You remember that, don't you?"

"Huh, I'm not touching that one with a stick," Jess shakes his head and sinks into the seat.

"Yeah well, since then, I thought about it and changed my mind," Lorelai smiles her sweetest smile.

"And this break-through took nearly thirty minutes?" Luke raises his eyebrows.

"I was being thorough," Lorelai clips lightly, then pulls on his hand. "Now come on, you get over there, let me in here, and let's get going."

Luke bursts out laughing. "You're not driving my truck."

"Excuse me?" Lorelai gapes at him with a shocked expression.

"Jess will drive," Luke declares and climbs down into the rain.

"Mr. Crash McBreakdown?" Lorelai shrieks in disbelief.

"Hey!" Jess protests, but bites his tongue and sinks lower into the seat.

Luke shrugs. "Yup. Or, you know, we can keep sitting here."

"Fine," Lorelai gives up with a sigh, "it's your truck."

Jess smirks to himself and slides over to the driver's seat; Lorelai steps away and Luke shuts the door closed. Jess waits a few seconds and then immediately goes in search of his cigarettes; he barely gets to the second pocket when the passenger's door opens and Lorelai climbs into the truck.

…

"Hey," Luke says and pulls the jeep door closed, wiping the rain of his face.

"Hey," Rory replies, and looks around, frowning. "Where's Mom?"

"In the truck," Luke replies, motioning backwards.

"And Jess?" she continues, feeling a distinct wave of nausea coming on.

"Also in the truck," Luke sighs, and turns on the engine.

"That's… scary," Rory says weakly.

"Yeah well, the way I see it, they'll either kill each other, or figure out a way… well, not to kill each other," Luke shrugs and kicks the jeep into gear. "Either way, by the time we all get home tonight, we'll know where we are."

"Great," Rory sighs, "that's just great. A brilliant plan."

…

"So, Jess," Lorelai says nonchalantly, "stolen any good gnomes lately?"

Jess smirks and shakes his head, but keeps his eyes on the road and holds his tongue.

"Okay, sorry about that, but you know, I tend to resort to humor, however lame and inappropriate, in awkward and uncomfortable situations, and this situation is pretty much a nightmare from where I'm standing," Lorelai tries again, glancing at Jess's profile.

"If it's such a nightmare, I don't understand why you're here," he shrugs, concentrating hard not to sound sarcastic. "You could have just ridden in the jeep."

"Oh come on, big picture, Jess," Lorelai rolls her eyes. "I'm not just talking about this little road trip."

"Okay, how about you just tell me what you're talking about then?" he challenges, buying time. "Just to avoid any misunderstandings, considering the two of us really don't have that great a track record when it comes to communication."

"Huh, and whose fault is that?" she challenges with a frown.

"Well, they say it takes two for a fight," he shrugs noncomittaly.

"Fine," Lorelai folds her arms and frowns harder. "I'll own up to my half if you own up to yours."

"That seems fair," he says after a minute.

"Okay, you go first," she shrugs.

He gives her a blank look. "What do you mean, go first? Aren't we done?"

"Done?" she chuckles in amusement. "No, not even close. You see, the way it works is, you tell me what you think you did wrong, and then I'll tell you what I think I did wrong. Then we talk about it, apologize if necessary, and move on."

"Oh Jesus," he rolls his eyes, then glances at her suspiciously. "Why do I have to go first?"

"Because I'm just that nice," Lorelai smiles sweetly; he just stares at her and she shrugs. "Fine, then because you screwed up first."

He looks rebellious for a moment, but she just looks at him blankly and without faltering, and although it's a bitter pill to swallow, the fact remains that, in this instance, she's actually right. Still, it doesn't make verbalizing the fact any easier and he just stares ahead at the blurred taillights on the jeep, searching for words he won't choke on.

"Okay, so apparently Rory was right when she said you were bad at this," Lorelai sighs and rubs her eyes.

"Bad at what?" he asks immediately, frowning at her.

"Aplogies, owning up to your messes… you know, basically anything that requires a certain, however minimal, dose of humility," Lorelai explains obligingly.

"Rory said that?" he asks, frowning harder.

"Well, I might have paraphrased a bit, and the humility bit I added, but the gist of the sentiment is hers," Lorelai shrugs.

"Okay, how about you don't paraphrase, refrain from adding anything and just do your best to literally repeat what she said?" Jess suggests with a shrug.

"Fine," Lorelai's eyes narrow. "She said you were sorry about those things you said to me on our porch. She said you never said it exactly, but that she knew you were sorry anyway." She looks at him carefully, but his face remains impassive. "Was she wrong?"

He can't help a smirk. "No," he admits after a moment, then throws her an exasperated look. "I guess now you'll expect me to explain why I acted the way I acted?"

"Oh no," she shakes her head. "I know why you did what you did. I told you, I've done the whole rebellious bit, so as mysterious and enigmatic as this whole philosophy of yours is to the general public, I'm significantly less fazed by it."

He really looks at her for the first time since she climbed into the truck, and shakes his head. "Okay fine, if I'm such an open book to you, then why mount such a general witch-hunt like you did?"

"Ah well, two reasons," she declares brightly. "First one, the rebellion is all fine and good as long as you have brains enough to know how far you can take it before you seriously hurt yourself or the people around you. I don't know enough about you to judge your intelligence, and if you're lacking in that department, you become dangerous. To yourself, which is of not so great importance to me, but also to others, and since others seems to include Rory, it becomes an issue of utmost importance. And since I had to pick a strategy, I decided to go for the pre-emptive strike rather than damage control, which, looking back, was beyond stupid since I neglected to take into account one important factor – the fact that Rory, as unusually reasonable and level-headed as she is, is still a teenager, and the same rule of thumb applies to her as to any other member of that alien race, and that is the fact that when you tell them not to do something, this is the best guarantee that they will do it anyway. I actually can't believe I overlooked that," she sighs, frowning. "It's such a rookie mistake."

Jess's head spins at the sheer mass of words that come out of her mouth in such a short time-frame, but once he processes them, he can actually see the logic in her reasoning, as twisted as it sounds. "Okay, and reason two?"

"You broke my kid, Jess," she says seriously. "I don't really expect you to even begin to understand what something like that does to a parent, because you won't understand it until you have kids of your own. And yes, I freaked out monumentally after that car crash incident, and that's my screw-up, the fact that I wouldn't listen when everyone told me it wasn't your fault. So for that, I'm sorry," she says simply, shrugging her shoulders.

Feeling like he's treading on thin ice, he opts for a silent nod and fixes his eyes on the road again; the rain has thinned somewhat and the Stars Hollow lights suddenly appear ahead.

"Okay, now that we got that out of the way, let's move on to more important issues," Lorelai says brightly after a brief silence.

"There's more?" he gawks at her, exasperated.

"Well, yeah," she gives him a patronizing look. "There's the frightening issue of you actually dating my daughter."

"Jesus," he chokes out, and loses his grip on the steering wheel for a moment, and silently thanks the powers that be for the clear stretch of road as he clutches it back in his hands; graciously, Lorelai pretends not to notice.

"So – you and Rory," she continues easily. "Just a few things you should know –"

"We're really not having this conversation," he warns with a frown, and watches the diner come into view.

Lorelai smiles. "Okay, your feelings are duly noted, but still – "

"No," he shakes his head, and hits the brakes as the jeep stops in front of the diner; he then turns towards her and scratches his head as he looks at her. "Look," he says exasperatedly, careful to keep his tone even, "I realize that yours and Rory's is not a typical mother-daughter relationship, and as much as it freaks me out, I realize that you two probably talk about things I wouldn't be caught dead discussing with… well, probably anyone. But I'm not going to listen to advice, or pointers, or warnings, or whatever it is you were about to say when it comes to Rory and me, because frankly, I don't think it's your place to give me any. The way I see it, whatever happens there is between me and her. But I know that whatever you were going to say was intended for Rory's benefit, and as far as that goes, for my part, here's what I think is important for you to know – I'm not the devil, or a sociopath, or a criminal. I like her, and I have no devious plans to hurt her in any way, okay?" He raises his eyebrows at her and rests his hands on the steering wheel, wondering if he's crossed some invisible, intangible line that will now coil up and choke him in revenge.

Lorelai gives him a long look, instinctively recognizing that here she's dealing with a personality that is somehow far more developed than his actual age, and has a set of principles firmly in place. Another shock comes when she realizes she recognizes some of them from when she was about that age, and it becomes difficult to resent him for what he just said and not be a hypocrite in the process. It's suddenly beyond obvious that he's not just a typical kid, and for a moment, she briefly glimpses a portion of what Rory sees, and can't really blame her for wanting to look further.

"Okay," she hears herself saying, "just as long as you know that the standard 'I'll hunt you down and kick your ass' clause applies."

"Yeah well, _that_ you really didn't need to tell me," he smirks, and withholds a sigh of relief.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	18. Of Mourning, Speckles and Windowsills

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**17. Of Mourning, Speckles and Windowsills  
**

Despite her grim expectations, Rory quickly ascertains there are no corpses to be dragged out of the truck once their little convoy stops in front of the diner. Both Lorelai and Jess emerge into the drizzle with no apparent bruises or scratch-marks, but both also wear identical impassive expressions that give nothing away and therefore allow little room for interpretation. In the moment, it bothers her to no end, but, remembering how much worse it could have been, Rory quickly makes her peace with this ambiguous scenario, deciding not to push her luck and to exercise patience until the opportunity presents itself to grill each of them separately. But nearly twenty-four hours (and dozens of attempts to elicit some specifics from Lorelai) later, she still has no progress to show for in that area – Lorelai just turns deaf and mute, depending on the situation, or insanely evasive, when asked what transpired in the truck the night before. Ultimately, Rory just gives up, hoping she'd have better luck with Jess when she sees him again.

However, she hasn't seen him; she hasn't even talked to him since the somewhat awkward and distant goodbyes they'd exchanged in front of the diner. Once she'd arrived home and hidden safely inside her bed, the preceding hours replayed themselves in her mind's eye in detail (curiously using Marvin Gaye's _Let's get it_ on as a soundtrack). She relived every glance, word and facial expression, and every feeling they produced, every touch and stomach flutter, heart beat and lack of breath until that amazing mix of excitement, delight and wonder that was the memory of that kiss settled in, and she found herself grinning into the darkness, blushing and breathless again. It felt amazing, it felt exhilarating to allow herself these feelings, to embrace and experience them without feeling guilty or confined; it was just beyond liberating to finally be able to admit that they're there, that they exist, regardless of where they might take her, and when they eventually lulled her into sleep, that unconscious grin remained untouched on her face.

On Saturday, however, the morning exhilaration turns to turmoil by early afternoon as the reality of having to break up with Dean in the evening rushes closer with every passing hour. She hates the idea of hurting him to the point of feeling sick, and again, hates herself for feeling the way she does, even hates Jess a little bit too since he is the cause of it all. By dinner time, she feels like she'll choke on all these conflicted emotions, and finally she desperately dumps the whole mess into Lorelai's lap, and instantly feels relieved to get it all out of her system, regardless of the sarcasm she's sure will follow the outburst. To her credit, Lorelai refrains from voicing opinions and offers advice instead, and it is unusually sound, sensible and logical considering it concerns an undertaking she's strongly opposed to. It also works, and Rory leaves the house with her confidence restored, wits collected and renewed appreciation for her mother.

Dean, however, isn't nearly as gracious in his defeat as Lorelai had been in hers the night before, but he isn't as vicious as he could be either. The whole conversation would be much uglier if Rory hadn't had the benefit of Lorelai's warning not to expect understanding or forgiveness from him at this point, so she refrains from asking for either and endures the sarcasm and the biting remarks mostly silently, reminding herself he's entitled to them. When he asks why, she takes a breath and tells the truth, a decision she'd made the moment she knew they were over, determined not to lie to him, beyond certain he deserves to know, but just as certain it would go over badly. It does, and he just laughs incredulously and storms off. She watches him go and feels her throat constrict and her eyes burn, but simultaneously, an enormous sense of relief washes over her as well, a curious freedom she instantly feels guilty for.

The tears come easy and in abundance, and she starts home somewhat blindly, purposefully giving the diner a wide berth, feeling this relationship she'd just buried deserves undisturbed mourning, like one secretly gives a favorite teddy bear when it's outgrown and placed into a box of childhood memories to be cherished forever, but kept out of the way in everyday life. Once she gets home, not wanting to share this experience and unwilling to be comforted, she curls up in the porch swing and waits for tears and memories to run their course, unhindered and uninhibited by time. The moon is high in the sky when she realizes her face is dry and her breathing steady, and she softly tiptoes into the house.

Lorelai's eyebrows lift over a mug of hot chocolate. "So, you lived."

"Barely," Rory smiles a tiny smile.

"Yeah, but still, you seem fine enough, which means I can finally draw my long overdue aromatic bubble-bath and, after a delicious hour of soaking, blindly stumble into bed," Lorelai sighs and pushes away a pile of magazines sprinkled with chocolate stains.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," Rory walks over, scooping up some chocolate on her finger and licking it clean. "Is there any more of this?" she asks hopefully. "I could use some comfort food… or a comfort beverage, I guess."

"Here, finish mine," Lorelai yawns and hands over her mug, getting up from the table. "And yes, I did," she adds over her shoulder with an understanding smile before she heads up the stairs.

Grateful for the lack of questions, however conspicuous, Rory retreats to her room with a smile and breath of relief; the smile grows as the muffled sounds of Lorelai's rendition of _Holding out for a hero_ drift down the stairs. She chuckles and puts the mug on her desk as she goes in search of her pajamas. Dressed and reaching for the mug again, her eyes run over the cork board above the desk and stumble over a photo of her and Dean; her heart skips a beat and she looks at the photo for a long time before she gently takes it down and shuts it in a drawer.

Upstairs, Lorelai hits the chorus in her performance, and since singing is not one of her mother's talents, Rory makes a quick detour to the stereo on her way to the bed, choosing Adele to cover Lorelai's attempt at 80s revival. Clutching her chocolate, she settles against the pillows and stares into space, her mind instantly drifting to Friday night and the implications thereof, attempting to analyze and discern and decide what happened and what it means. Soon it proves to be an impossible mission from a standpoint of reason because within seconds she shifts into reliving feelings instead of thoughts; the silly grin returns and suddenly she finds herself wildly missing Jess, the last twenty-four hours momentarily seeming like a decade, and the night ahead an eternity before morning when she can walk into Luke's and… _and what, exactly_? They hadn't talked about what happens next; they hadn't really talked at all, the yelling and the bickering notwithstanding – they'd just kissed (and her skin obligingly bristles at the memory) and barely stepped back from each other when the parental patrol swooped in and mounted an unwelcome rescue mission.

She sips her chocolate and thinks about that kiss again, hungry to remember it after having consciously kept it out of her mind all day, wanting to be fair and focused on Dean for the last time, but now that's she's done that, she's free to think about it again - how soft and gentle and all-consuming it was, how quickly it cast aside any doubts or misgivings and melted the world away. It felt right and somehow perfectly natural, reassuring yet wondrously frightening at the same time, and she wonders again how such a conflicting mess of sensations can produce such a unique feeling of pure thrill, overwhelming in its promise of even bigger thrills lingering just a heartbeat away… and she wildly misses him again.

_You've been on my mind, I grow fonder every day,  
Lose myself in time, just thinking of your face,  
God only knows why it's taken me so long to let my doubts go..._

A tap on the window startles her out of her reverie, and even though it's soft, it somehow resonates much too loudly in the surrounding silence, mostly because it's so conspicuously out of place. She peers suspiciously towards the window, but seeing out is an impossible mission because the lamp on her nightstand is on while it's pitch black outside, and she can't make out anything in the darkness. She points the remote to the stereo and tunes Adele down instead, then cocks her head and listens a while – just as she tells herself she must have imagined it, the tap sounds again. She jumps out of the bed and, clutching the mug tighter, sneaks towards the window and slowly pulls the drapes aside.

The smirk, the eyes and the hair are unmistakable, and so is the sudden head-rush and ridiculous anguish over whether there's chocolate she's not aware of smeared across her face; however, neither can be helped at the moment so she puts the mug away and pulls the window up.

"Hi," he smirks casually, like he just ran into her in the middle of the square with the sun high in sky.

"Are you out of your mind?" she hisses in a panic, wildly listening for movement upstairs.

"Yeah, it's great to see you too," he smiles, propping his elbows on the windowsill. "How was your day?"

"Jess, it's nearly 3 in the morning," she exasperatedly points out the obvious.

He shrugs. "Okay, so how was your evening?"

"Are you kidding me? It's the middle of the night and my Mom is right up there!"

"Most probably asleep, right?" he reminds her reasonably.

"Yeah, but still…" she protests, but loses momentum quickly. "What are you doing here?"

"Do I need a reason?" he challenges with a smile; her stomach flutters and she instantly forfeits any discussion.

"Well, no," she smiles and kneels in the armchair, propping her arm next to his, "but most people would have one at 3am."

"So sorry to disappoint," he smirks, shrugging, mentally gauging the distance to her face now that it's level with his.

She smiles. "You didn't," she admits softly, suddenly examining the armchair upholstery.

"You have chocolate on your nose," he chuckles quietly, and watches her blush.

"Of course I do," she mumbles with a sigh, attempting to clear the speckle, but it won't budge. "Did I get it?" she looks at him expectantly, and he finds himself staring at the stubborn little stain but for some intangible reason nods yes nonetheless.

"So, what did you do today?" he asks again, once the speckle obsession subsides.

She gives him an uncertain, studious look, then shrugs and takes a breath. "Freaked out, for the most part, then went and talked to Dean." She clearly feels his arm tense up next to hers, but he makes no comment aside from an inquiring look. "We're done," she answers the unspoken question with a shrug, and fixes her eyes on the upholstery again, absently noticing the mug is leaving a ring stain on the armrest.

He considers this silently for a moment, then smiles. "So, what happens now?" he asks softly; the change in tone makes her breath skip and instantly brings her eyes back to his. There's a spark there that she recognizes; her mouth dries in a rush and her heart races faster.

"I don't know," she shrugs, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I didn't think that far ahead."

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly. "Oh, come on," he smirks, "you, without a plan? Hell must be freezing over…"

She riles up immediately and takes a breath, but before she can unleash the reprimand, the floorboards above her head creek and a square of light from the upstairs bathroom window paints a yellow square on the grass to Jess's left; Rory jerks away from the window but he grabs her hand, keeping her in place. "It's just a nature call, don't panic," he chuckles quietly, and she catches her breath and settles back in the armchair.

"What did you two talk about in that truck, anyway?" she whispers, her hand still wrapped in his; she tries her best to ignore the hectic rhythm her pulse now beats against his palm.

"Oh you know, rules and regulations," he laughs softly, "the usual."

Her eyebrows lift, then shift into a confused frown. "How about some specifics on that 'usual', because I couldn't tell what that might be if my life depended on it."

"Huhl, let's just say a truce is in effect," he smirks enigmatically.

"I see you're just as ready to share as she was," Rory rolls her eyes. "It's unbelievable, you go into the truck ready to draw blood and come out co-conspirators. Go figure.."

"Well, we found we had… a mutual interest," he shrugs and slowly turns her hand over in his, absently running circles in her palm with his thumb. It's small and warm, her hand, the fingers slim and nimble, the palm lines thin and delicate; it fits within his easily and he just watches it lay there for a while before he looks back up at her face. Her expression is different now, flushed and intense, and she chews on her lower lip absently, her eyes fixed on their hands entwined together. The scene brings an instant urge to kiss her, and since this is an impulse he's been curbing ever since she drew that window up, he's now more than ready to indulge in it, so he quickly sneaks his free hand around her neck and pulls her lips to his.

Her mouth opens instantly and once again, his blood rushes as tongues tangle and breaths tie together over the windowsill; his mind drifts somewhere out of reach then shuts down completely, retreating in the face of feelings that obliterate everything else from existence. She tastes almost familiar now, a unique flavor he's beginning to recognize and can exactly remember and therefore crave specifically, and he has been, for the past twenty-four hours, he's been craving it enough to walk here in the middle of the night on the off chance she might be awake. And being kissed like this, with this sweet abandon she brings, he knows he would have walked much further to repeat this priceless experience over and over. In these moments, she touches something in him that he can't name, she reaches places within that no one's come close to before, some he himself didn't really know existed, and he has no idea how she does it.

_I don't know why I'm scared, 'cause I've been here before,  
Every feeling, every word,  
I've imagined it all..._

Her hand uncoils from his and she tangles them both in his hair, changing the angle; the kiss changes with it and his blood surges in a very definite direction. He suddenly becomes very aware of the flimsy pajamas and how soft the skin on her neck feels, and holds back an overwhelming desire to explore further. Seconds or hours drift by unnoticed because time loses all meaning and can only be measured by soreness of lips when they finally break apart, gasping for air.

"God, it took you an eternity to get around to that," she blurts out with half a giggle, but still blushes at such uncharacteristic bluntness.

"Okay, duly noted… next time, I'll just skip over the pleasantries and pounce," he smirks, trying to play it cool, but somehow unable to hold back a betraying grin. "Just remember, you asked for it, so don't bite my head off if I pounce in public."

"Just as long as I'm the only one you're pouncing on," she shrugs with a smile, but quickly turns serious when a disturbing thought enters her head and chills her to the bone. "Am I?" she adds off-handedly, aiming for a casual tone.

"Do you want to be?" he asks softly, twirling a strand of hair.

"I don't want to share you with the various Shanes of this world, if that's what you're asking," she admits with a shrug.

"You're not," he smirks. "The Shanes of this world have been history for over a week."

Her eyebrows lift. "Really? Huh, how come I didn't notice that?"

"I guess you were too busy hating my guts," he smiles.

"I never hated your guts," she protests. "I was just…"

"I think 'jealous' is the word you're looking for," he offers innocently, hiding a smirk.

"Well, I guess it takes one to know one," she smiles sweetly, and he can't help but laugh. "So, this is like a thing now, me and you?" she asks uncertainly, carefully studying his face.

"Well, I'd say the thinglet's evolved considerably, so yeah, definitely a thing," he smiles and leans in, ready to leave the world behind again.

_So I dare you to let me be your, your one and only,  
I promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms,  
So come on and give me a chance,  
To prove I am the one who can walk that mile..._

* * *

_Lyrics used: One And Only, Adele_

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	19. Of Princes, Flowers and Facts of Life

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**18. Of Princes, Flowers and Facts of Life**

"Okay, what have you got?" Rory asks expectantly as she plops on the couch next to Jess, holding a book pressed close to her chest but keeping the cover hidden.

"You first," he replies, unable to hold back a chuckle at the barely contained excitement that radiates from her face.

"No deal, I went first last week," she laughs, shaking her head, "and the week before that."

"Imagine that… still, you go first," he smirks, crossing his hands on his chest.

She rolls her eyes. "Why do I always have to go first?"

"Because I'm a gentleman," he declares seriously.

"Oh right, I'm sure that's the reason," she snorts, but smiles anyway. "Fine, I'll go," she shrugs and turns over the book she's holding.

"_The little prince," _he reads out the title, taking the book from her. "A classic," he nods, smiling at her. "So this was your favorite book when you were a kid? When did you first read it?"

"I didn't," she smiles back. "Mom read it to me. I think I must have made her read it a thousand times."

"But at some point you must have read it for yourself," he lifts his eyebrows.

She shakes her head. "No," she says softly, taking the book back and running her hand over the cover. "My mom first read it to me when I was four, the last time when I was nine. In between, more times than I can remember, but enough for me to memorize certain passages by heart and instantly know when she changed anything – which she would do, occasionally, just to have me correct her," she chuckles.

"Yeah, but still – if you liked it so much, how come you never read it later?" he asks, confused, peering through a curtain of hair that hides her face.

"Because," she shrugs, "my mom read it to me. I guess I wanted to keep that." She looks up at him and smiles again, and for a moment, he can see the little girl that lives inside, and he understands.

"So, are you ever going to read it?" he asks softly, pushing her hair back from her face.

"Oh yeah," she nods fervently; he looks confused, and she laughs. "I'll read it when time comes for my kids to hear it."

The scene appears instantly in his head in high definition, completely endearing and strangely close; warmth spreads inside and his heart fills unexpectedly, but in the next breath panic strikes and he shakes of the daydream, chills running down his spine. _Holy shit, what's the matter with me? Kids?_

"But don't you miss it?" he asks incredulously, pointing to the book, shaking off the temporary lapse into madness.

She shrugs. "Sometimes. But I hear abstinence builds character."

"Yeah well, it can also drive you gaga," he smirks, lifting his eyebrows.

She grins. "Okay, so I guess you still regularly delve into your favorite childhood literature?"

"At least once a week," he nods seriously. "It keeps me sane."

"So let's see this sanity recipe," she challenges and grins wider.

"In a minute," he smirks, leaning closer.

The apartment door opens with a thud and Luke stomps in, alert and wide-eyed, with an unmistakable air of a determined detective about to apprehend a felon; he takes in the room with a frown and settles on the pair on the couch (two feet apart and not touching at all) with a mixed expression of disappointment and relief.

"Have you seen my apron?" he asks at the general direction of the couch and scratches his head.

Rory frowns, considering the question; Jess throws him a dirty look and shakes his head. "Not that I keep track, but I'm pretty sure that thing has never made it up those stairs unless it was mounted on you, so I'll go with no."

"Huh, you're sure?" Luke wonders, scrutinizing the couch, the bed (that mercifully appears untouched) and the general (dis)order of the room.

"Positive," Jess reaffirms, eyes narrowing, daggers shooting out at Luke's innocent expression. "I'm actually pretty sure it's still at the same place you left it right before you came up here to ask if I knew where it was."

"Hilarious," Luke rolls his eyes and retreats; the door closes and footsteps fade down the stairs.

"The man is menace," Jess shakes his head incredulously; Rory shrugs, smiling, and scoots closer.

"It will probably take him a few minutes to come up with the next thing he lost," she murmurs soothingly and kisses him gently, running her tongue across his lips in a tantalizing little circle, and Luke instantly evaporates from Jess's mind along with the rest of reality.

It's been three weeks of kisses now and they've got their rhythm down, the teeth and noses don't clash anymore, they've got their angles figured out and they find them easily, but always seem to discover new ones with every next opportunity, although there never seems to be enough time to explore them all, or enough hands to hold on to each other with. She'd been somewhat reserved at first, a little nervous and anxious, but she'd relaxed soon enough and she doesn't hold back anymore, and this fantastic, yielding side of her is an ongoing, glorious test for his self-control, and once again, he wonders how long until it's okay for him to fail it miserably. Leaning back into the pillows, he holds her closer and hooks his hand under her knees, turning her sideways and pulling her onto his lap; it's a smooth maneuver, but a new one, and he waits , alert for a recoil, wondering again why it matters so much to him how she reacts – it never used to with anyone else. Nothing happens, the kiss doesn't change and he relaxes, once again tangling fingers in her hair, holding her close, letting his mind drift and his senses tune to how warm she feels against him, how perfect and thrilling and his.

The phone rings out next to the sofa, annoying and shrill, loud and persistent, and he reaches for it with a groan and brings the receiver to his ear.

"Yeah?" he says impatiently; Rory slides lower in his lap and rests her head in the crook of his neck.

"Hey," Luke says lazily.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Jess sighs, and rubs his eyes.

"Did I leave my hat up there?" Luke asks casually.

"No, but I'd look for my sanity if I were you, because clearly, that seems to have taken an extended leave of absence," Jess growls into the phone.

"Yeah well, for now, I'm just wondering about the hat," Luke replies easily.

"Have you checked your head?" Jess scowls. "And I mean for both the hat and the loose screws."

"So then it's not up there?" Luke continues, unfazed.

"Shockingly, no," Jess rolls his eyes.

"Huh," Luke says. "Well, okay, thanks, sorry to bother you."

"Oh, I'm sure you are," Jess mumbles and slams the phone down. "God, what is he, clairvoyant or something?"

Rory chuckles, shrugging. "Just dedicated, I guess."

"More like a royal pain in the ass," he rolls his eyes again, and kisses her head. "Okay, where were we?" he murmurs into her ear , running his hand up and down her arm.

"You were about to tell me about your favorite childhood book that you still read once a week," she chuckles against his neck, ignoring the tingles his hand sends rushing all over.

"Really? Somehow I remember much more interesting things happening in the meantime," he smirks into her hair.

She laughs. "Yeah, but we're due another intervention at any moment, so let's stick to the book. Besides, I really want to know what it is."

"Fine," he sighs, shifting a little, and reaches for a book on the table next to the sofa; it's a battered hardcover that was once probably white but now shows a yellowish tint and various little stains, some identifiable, some less so. He places it in her lap and she frowns at it.

"Who's Shel Silverstein?" she asks after a moment of bewildered consideration.

Jess laughs. "You're kidding, right?"

"No," she shakes her head, "I really have no idea." She opens the book a flips a few pages, and the frown changes into a grin as she straightens up and looks at him. "Jess, these are poems!"

"Yeah," he smirks.

"Your favorite childhood book is a book of poems?" She bursts out laughing, then shakes her head. "Oh my God, you're just one riddle on top of another!"

"Well, just for the record, your lack of knowledge of Silverstein's work is a serious hole in your literary curriculum vitae," he declares with conviction.

"And you still read this?" she asks incredulously, still grinning wide.

"Are you kidding me?" he chuckles. "_Rockabye baby, in the treetop; don't you know a treetop is no safe place to rock? And who put you up there, and your cradle too? Baby, I think someone down here's got it in for you,"_ he rattles off the top of his head, rocking her on his knees. "Who wouldn't read it?"

She bursts out laughing. "Oh my God, that's in there? It's insane!"

"It's a perfectly valid question," he smirks, delighted at her laughter. "A cradle? In the treetop?"

"Yeah, but still…" she laughs again, then looks at the book. "Are they all like that?"

"Most of them, yeah," he admits with a shrug.

"How old were you when you started reading this?" she asks, flipping the pages.

"I don't know, seven, eight maybe," he shrugs. "There was this old guy that lived across the hall from us - you know, pretty much your typical hermit with an apartment full of junk and a band of cats – he gave it to me. Gave me a lot of my books, actually, once I figured out that even though he was a certified weirdo, he wasn't genuinely crazy, just…" he chuckles "…I think he would have liked 'eccentric' as a form of description."

She catches the past tense and lifts her eyebrows. "Would have liked?"

"He died," Jess shrugs.

"I'm sorry," she says, sensing a true feeling of loss behind his tone.

"Yeah, me too," he nods, absently running his hand over her back. "He left me a lot of books, though. It was a pretty serious achievement for a twelve-year-old to be named in someone's will," he smirks.

"That was nice of him," she smiles and runs her finger down his cheek, wanting to comfort.

"Yeah, well, Liz didn't really share the sentiment. There was an all out war for weeks over 'that dust-covered pile of junk' I was determined to bring into our otherwise pristine and spotless living environment," he says bitterly, then catches himself. "But I prevailed," he adds with a smirk, seeing a little too much sympathy in her face.

A hundred questions appear in her head, but it's beyond obvious he doesn't want to dwell on the subject, so she swallows them all for the moment and smiles at the book again. "So, any particular favorites?"

"Lots," he smirks again.

"For instance?" she asks, opening the book.

"Huh…," he thinks for a moment. _"From dusk to dawn, from town to town, without a single clue, I seek the tender, slender foot to fit this crystal shoe. From dusk to dawn, I try it on each damsel that I meet - and I still love her so, but oh, I've started hating feet."_

She shrieks in mirthful laughter again, then covers her mouth to muffle it, its pitch so high it borders on a scream, and makes an effort to shake it off.

"Okay, watch it with the squeaking, or I'll go deaf here," Jess warns, chuckling.

"Sorry," she mumbles through her fingers, still shaking with laughter; the apartment door bursts open, and a panicked Luke stumbles in.

"What's with the screaming?" he demands with a frown.

"Well, obviously, I've just killed Rory," Jess deadpans.

"Funny," Luke shoots back, frowning at the seating arrangement. "What are you doing?"

"Uhm, reading Jess's favorite childhood book," Rory offers in a small voice, lifting up the offending item; Luke just looks at her blankly. "They're poems, they're really funny," she explains in a rush. Luke's expression doesn't change, and she elbows Jess. "Come on, repeat that last one."

"No," he says stubbornly.

"Fine, I'll read one," she continues quickly, and flips a few pages. "Okay, here's something…" she chuckles again. "Sorry… okay, here it is: _There's too many kids in this tub. There's too many elbows to scrub. I just washed a behind, that I'm sure wasn't mine; there's too many kids in this tub_." She barely finishes and bursts out laughing again.

Luke looks at them for a long moment, then shakes his head. "I'm sorry I asked," he sighs, scratches his head, and leaves them alone again.

"Do you know all of these by heart?" she asks quickly, partly out of curiosity, partly to gloss over Luke's appearance.

"Most of them," Jess replies, deciding to play along although he's fuming inwardly.

"Really?" she stares at him incredulously.

"Hey, you claim to have committed most of the _Little prince _to memory, and you're making me out to be the weirdo?" he challenges with a chuckle.

"Okay, fair point," she concedes with a smile, and flips a few more pages. "Can I keep this?"

"No," he laughs incredulously.

"Why not?" she asks, surprised.

"Can I keep the Prince?" he asks back.

"Okay, another good point," she chuckles, "although my question came out wrong – I didn't mean 'keep it forever', I just wanted to borrow it. It's hilarious, and I could use a daily dose of laughter. Also, I want to show some of this stuff to my mom, I think she'd really get a kick out of it."

He laughs. "Yeah, she probably would. I mean, anyone with half a brain would… except Luke, apparently."

"Oh, come on, in different circumstances, he'd think it was funny too," she chuckles. "But right now, I think he's probably too stressed out to really appreciate it… or anything else, for that matter." His face darkens and she switches gears quickly, handing him the book. "Come on, do another one," she demands and settles against his shoulder again.

He smiles, and flips a few pages, watching her absently trail the Clash inscription on his shirt; he chuckles inwardly at a few familiar titles but ultimately chooses one that he likes for different reasons.

"_Once I spoke the language of the flowers,  
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,  
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,  
And shared a conversation with the housefly  
in my bed.  
Once I heard and answered all the questions  
of the crickets,  
And joined the crying of each falling dying  
flake of snow,  
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .  
How did it go?  
How did it go?"_

She listens quietly to the words and to the rhythm his heart beats against her ear, muffled and subdued, and she imagines him as a boy, sitting in an apartment full of dust-covered books, listening to a stranger tell stories and limericks that are child-like in form but so much less so in the underlying meaning, somehow certain he'd understood them as such even then, and equally certain she wouldn't have.

"Did you ever understand it, the language of the flowers?" she asks softly against his neck.

"Every kid does," he smirks into her hair. "It's just a question of how long they can afford to listen to it. Some have to stop sooner than others."

"This is a very sad poem," she declares with a sigh. "Insightful and true, but very sad."

"Sorry," he chuckles apologetically and puts the book away.

"I'm not," she shrugs, then smiles, lacing her fingers with his. "Let's do that next week – The Saddest Book You've Ever Read."

He laughs. "Sure, but just for the record – if you show up with _Wuthering Heights_ or a similar cliché, I'm not playing anymore."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she rolls her eyes. "_Wuthering Heights_ is many things, but definitely not the saddest book I've ever read. _The Prince_ here is in many ways sadder than that, actually," she says bemusedly, remembering the mellow magic of the story. "Growing up sucks," she declares sadly, suddenly painfully missing the language of the flowers.

He laughs, then tangles his hand in her hair, gently tilting her head up. "It has a few perks," he smirks against her lips and watches them curve into a smile, but a familiar set of thuds on the stairs effectively ruins the moment. Rolling his eyes, he slides her off his lap and jumps up, then pulls her after him. "Come on, let's get out of here, or I swear, I might strangle him with my bare hands!"

Rory chuckles and picks up her jacket and Silverstein just as the door opens and Luke strolls in. "Sorry, I just needed my…"

"Save it, we're leaving," Jess announces in a strangled voice, "but before we do, there's just one little thing…"

"Uhm, so I'll be downstairs, getting a muffin, or a coffee, or whichever excuse sounds good to you," Rory interjects in a breath and disappears in a rush; Luke blankly watches her go then refocuses on Jess and the proverbial smoke coming out of his ears.

"Okay, here's a newsflash – this passive-aggressive surveillance scenario you have going? It's ridiculous," Jess declares with an eye-roll.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Luke replies, nonplussed.

Jess shakes his head in disbelief, then shrugs. "Fine. Just one thing you might want to think about – whatever you think we were doing here, we could do it someplace else, and even with your limited knowledge of the inner workings of a teenage mind, you should really know by now that if – and I stress the _if_ here – we choose to do something, whatever it may be, we _will_ find a way to do it, and no amount of misplaced hats and aprons will ever change that. It's a fact of life, so deal with it," he adds with a smirk and pulls his jacket on. Luke stares at him, gaping but speechless, and Jess holds back a chuckle and heads for the door, but turns around as he pulls it open. "And if you don't believe _me_, just ask Lorelai, and she'll sign off on this unfortunate truth for you in a heartbeat."

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	20. Of ChickenPox, Onion Rings and Promises

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

**I've changed the story rating to M. You've been warned :)**

* * *

**19. Of Chicken-Pox, Onion Rings and Promises**

"So, I'm leaving," Lorelai announces, dragging the third and last bag down the stairs.

"You've been leaving for the last hour and a half," Rory calls back from the sofa with a yawn and flips a channel disinterestedly.

"I had to pack," Lorelai deadpans.

"You've packed, unpacked and then repacked three times," Rory points out over her shoulder.

"Yeah well, I had to make sure I had everything," Lorelai rolls her eyes.

Rory laughs and heads to the hallway. "Mom, it's a spa weekend with Grandma. Trust me, you won't need four pairs of heels," she chuckles, leaning against the doorway. "As long as you've got aspirin and a pocket flask, you're all set."

"More like horse tranquilizers and a keg," Lorelai cringes, then perks up suddenly. "Hey, I know – how about we paint some red spots on your face, proclaim you have the chicken-pox and I have to stay home to nurse you, thus saving me from a faith worse than death?"

"I've had the chicken-pox," Rory shrugs regretfully.

"So what?" Lorelai frowns.

"You can only have chicken-pox once," Rory points out patiently.

"Says who?" Lorelai challenges argumentatively.

"Uhm, well, western medicine as a whole has reached a pretty firm consensus on that one," Rory deadpans.

"So, you'll be a medical marvel or something. Reporters will flock, studies will be written, there'll be a media frenzy…" Lorelai lists enthusiastically.

"Yeah, with headlines screaming _'Crazy mother stages makeshift illness of daughter to avoid mud-bath_', or something to that effect. Soon thereafter I expect Social Services will descend, declare you delusional and therefore unfit, strip you of custody, and I'll end up with Grandma as a legal guardian," Rory chuckles.

"Wow, you really paint a grim picture," Lorelai admits sullenly, then rolls her eyes. "Fine, I'll do the mud-bath."

"I appreciate the sacrifice," Rory nods seriously.

Lorelai makes a face, grabs two bags and hauls them out to the jeep; Rory lifts the third one and follows. They load the bags into the Jeep and Lorelai puts on her sunglasses and sighs.

"Okay, I'm going," she declares resignedly. "And I'm already late, which leaves me with a two hour drive to prepare for a lecture I'll receive within a minute I arrive… what a wonderful prospect," she shakes her head gloomily and pulls open the driver's door.

Rory holds back a smile and pushes her hand into her sweats pocket. "Here," she says and hands Lorelai a CD, "something to lift your spirits."

Lorelai glances at the CD then frowns at Rory. "The Bee Gees?"

This time, the chuckle escapes and Rory shrugs. "You know, the whole stayin' alive thing."

"Gee, thanks," Lorelai deadpans, getting into the car and dropping the cd onto the passanger seat. "So, what are you going to be doing?" she asks out the window.

"I have some homework to finish, so that'll take care of the early afternoon. I expect the first frantic call from you around five, maybe six, so there's an hour right there…" - Lorelai sticks her tongue out, but Rory just shrugs and takes a breath, preparing to deliver the punch line – "and tonight, I guess Jess will come over with a movie or something. Okay, so have a safe trip and you know, don't kill Grandma," she adds quickly and shuts the door, then retreats hastily toward the house with a little wave.

"Uhm, hold it just a sec," Lorelai calls out, climbing out of the car in a rush. "Jess is coming over? Did we agree on that?"

_So close,_ Rory sighs inwardly, turning around again. "Well, we didn't _not_ agree on it," she offers cautiously.

"Huh, sneaky… I can't decide whether to be proud or mortified," Lorelai shrugs, leaning against the car. "I actually can't believe that, somehow, all the implications of you alone in the house for the weekend just completely slipped my mind."

"Well, I guess it's not really surprising with this spa thing looming over your head for the last few days," Rory rationalizes comfortingly. "I mean, if it was a seminar or… well, basically anything not involving Grandma, I'm sure you would have been all over the Jess issue as early as Monday or Tuesday."

"Yeah, probably, but still…", Lorelai shakes her head. "So, Jess is coming over?"

Rory nods, rocking back and forth on her feet. "That's the plan," she confirms, then peers up at Lorelai; the sunglasses hide her eyes but she detects a frown forming on her forehead. "Is that a problem?"

"Everything concerning Jess is a problem," Lorelai sighs, scratching her head.

"Okay, but is it a problem that requires a veto?" Rory asks thoughtfully.

"I don't know, you tell me," Lorelai shrugs; the sunglasses come off and the eyes that appear show only concern.

"In that case, I'll go with - no," Rory says simply. "And, for the record, I did tell you about it."

"True," Lorelai nods with a smile. "I appreciate that."

"Yeah well, you would have caught on at some point anyway – I mean, _Lovers_ is on there too," she motions to the cd in the car, "and I didn't want you to swerve and end up in a ditch somewhere once the dots connected."

"Right, good call," Lorelai admits, then cocks her head. "So, which movie?"

"Which movie?" Rory repeats blankly, confused. "Why does that matter?"

"Well, my perception of the situation will wildly vary depending if you're watching _The Texas chainsaw massacre_ or _Nine and a half weeks_," Lorelai clips lightly.

Rory feels a blush coming on and hates herself for it. "Okay, point taken, but I really have no idea what he's going to bring, so I can't answer that, but I don't think it would make a difference anyway."

Lorelai smiles again and nods again, but says nothing; she just looks at her daughter for a long time, and Rory suddenly feels very naked under the stare. "So?" she asks, shrugging, growing tired of the x-ray vision.

Lorelai sighs, lowers back the sunglasses and pulls the door open. "Fine, no veto. Have fun and don't do anything stupid – and I'm asking here, not requesting or ordering, so there's no need for any misguided rebellion."

"Thanks," Rory smiles and moves in for a hug and a kiss before she closes the car door on Lorelai and watches the Jeep disappear down the road.

…

"See ya later," Jess calls out in an extremely innocuous tone, barely sticking his head into the diner for half a second.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on with the vanishing act," Luke calls back, scrambling after the quickly retreating head with a plate-full of onion rings. " Where're you off to?" he demands somewhat more calmly once he reaches the back and finds his fugitive still on the inner side of the door.

"Out," Jess offers concisely.

"Yeah, shocking as it may be, but that part I figured out," Luke deadpans. "And where is 'out', exactly?"

"Well, any space on the other side of that door pretty much fits the description," Jess shrugs.

"You don't say," Luke rolls his eyes and starts to fold his hands, but the onion rings get in the way so he settles for a head scratch, "but unless you plan on standing in the alley, how about some specifics on the destination and the estimated time of return?"

"Okay, how about – none-of-your-business on the first, and unknown on the second?" Jess offers, frowning.

"Huh, how about a one-way ticket to New York if you keep up the smart-ass act?" Luke suggests sweetly.

Jess frowns harder, contemplating. "Okay, I'm confused – since when does shipping me out of this hell-hole constitute a punishment?"

Luke shrugs, and picks an onion ring. "Since I realized you actually want to stay in mentioned hell-hole," he explains easily, completely unfazed by the murderous glare he receives. "It's kind of obvious, really," he adds with a smirk and offers the plate to Jess. "Onion ring?"

"I'll pass," Jess grits through his teeth, seething.

"Suit yourself," Luke shrugs and dips his piece into the side sauce. "So, now that the new order has been established, where are you off to?" he asks good-naturedly, eyebrows lifting.

"Okay, if you seriously think I'm playing this game, you're out of your mind," Jess points out incredulously.

"Oh come on, unclench," Luke rolls his eyes. "I mean, what will it cost you, really, just to answer one stupid question? Is it so unreasonable that I want to know where you're going on a Saturday night and when you might be back?"

"Well, it's unreasonable to expect I'll answer if you blackmail me into it," Jess points out dully.

"Okay, for the record, the blackmail came after the smartass scenario," Luke warns with a frown, pointing an accusatory onion ring. "I mean, you could have said, I don't know, let's see –_ I'm going wherever, and I'll probably be back whenever_, and I might have said – _okay, have fun_. Did that thought ever cross your mind?"

"I seriously doubt that you would have said – okay, have fun," Jess smirks, shaking his head.

"Try me," Luke shrugs and bites into the onion ring, raising his eyebrows with a challenge.

"Okay, fine," Jess shrugs back, and leans against the door. "Hey Luke, I'm going over to Rory's, and I'll probably be late so don't wait up. Oh yeah, incidentally, Lorelai's out of town for the weekend so we'll have the house all to ourselves, " he declares carelessly, lifting his eyebrows in a challenge to match.

Instantly, Luke stops chewing; for a few long seconds he stares at Jess, motionless. Jess bites back a chuckle and scrambles for a neutral expression.

"You know, now that I think about it, I could go for a snack," he shrugs after a moment and picks an onion ring, "even though you look like you're about to choke on yours."

Luke swallows in a rush and frowns.

"So, is this the part when you tell me to have fun?" Jess continues, nonplussed.

Luke sets the plate on the shelf and rubs his eyes. "Okay, so what do you two have planned for tonight, all alone in that empty house?"

The unusually calm tone and the absence of the expected freak-out are confusing to say the least, and bring about an honest answer. "I don't know, watch a movie," Jess finds himself saying with a shrug.

"That's it?" Luke raises his eyebrows, still calm.

"As far as I know," Jess replies, still honest, and chews on the onion ring. It needs salt, but somehow he decides this is not the time to bring that up.

Luke nods and scratches his head again. "You've got a tooth-brush in there?" he asks, motioning to the backpack hanging off Jess's shoulder.

"A what?" Jess repeats incredulously.

"You do know what a tooth-brush is, don't you?" Luke deadpans. "I'm asking if yours is in there, or still upstairs in our bathroom."

Jess rolls his eyes. "I don't make a habit of lugging around toiletries."

"Okay, so at some point tonight, you'll be back in the apartment, brushing your teeth before you go to bed?" Luke asks easily.

"That's the plan," Jess shrugs, swallowing the onion ring.

"Any other… accessories… in there?" Luke lifts his eyebrows.

"Such as?" Jess challenges, eyes narrowing.

"The kind you generally get at drug stores," Luke elaborates without hesitation, his tone still calm, but his gaze steady and careful, completely impossible to look away from and definitely inadvisable to avoid.

"It's a movie and some popcorn, Luke, not strip poker over a plate of oysters," Jess roll his eyes.

Luke takes his time and studies the eyes and the face for a long moment; then he picks another onion ring, dips it into the sauce and bites on it. "Is that a promise?" he asks casually, pointing the remaining piece at Jess.

Folding his hands, Jess takes an equally long moment and his own onion ring, and the staring contest goes on for a while, silence periodically interrupted by awkward chewing sounds. "For tonight – yeah," Jess shrugs after a while. "Provided you don't lose any aprons, hats or miscellaneous other trinkets."

Luke mulls this over for a while, then nods. "Okay," he shrugs, picks up the plate, and heads back towards the diner.

"That's it?" Jess gawks after him, dumbstruck.

"Actually, no," Luke smirks, stopping at the doorway. "Have fun," he adds with a shrug and disappears into the diner.

Jess shakes his head incredulously and walks out, tormented by a peculiar feeling of responsibility that comes with being trusted.

…

"So, is she gone?" Jess asks with a half-smirk as Rory opens the door.

"I thought there was a truce," Rory frowns, stepping aside to let him into the house.

"Oh, there is," he nods, walking past, "but the greater the distance between us, the better it works."

Rory shakes her head and smiles, then shuts the door behind him; Jess drops the backpack on the floor and turns around, the familiar smirk now firmly in place. It brings about equally familiar goose-bumps and stomach flutters, and she wonders again if they will ever cease or diminish, or are they here to stay, destined to awake every time he comes within two feet of her, or smiles, or gives her this look he's giving her now, the one that comes before a kiss.

"Hi," he says softly; the flutters kick into second gear at the tone, then into third as he wraps his arms around her.

"Hi," she smiles, instantly stepping closer, quickly figuring out it's been nearly 24 hours since she'd last touched him but certain eternities have gone by quicker than those hours, and this kiss that's supposed to happen now also seems somehow too slow in coming. Unwilling to wait, she cuts short the smiles and the eye-gazing and goes straight for his mouth and the fabulous sensations that await there.

It's something new and different, this rush she comes at him with, she somehow skips over the playful and gentle introduction her kisses usually start with and moves right into that breathtaking dimension of urgency and eagerness that makes his blood rush and his head spin. It comes a s a surprise because this is usually where he takes them, with her following, sometimes more and sometimes less reluctantly. She's never been the one to take that first step, but now that she has, it quickly becomes apparent that it's not so much a step as it is a leap because she soon unzips his jacket and peels it off his shoulders in a very determined motion, with a sense of urgency that makes the wires in his head cross instantly, effectively shutting down any thoughts beyond the here and now and her.

Sacrificing a moment of bliss to resolve a practical issue of growing relevance, because balance is quickly becoming a key factor, he peers around for a more suitable venue. Spotting a sofa in convenient vicinity, he steers them towards it slowly, although the ensuing tumble onto the cushions is anything but gentle, with Rory's head very nearly missing a thick binder of history notes that lies in ambush, half-hidden by the cushions. This subtle hint for a reality check is quickly dealt with and then thoroughly ignored as the tangle of hands and tongues and breaths continues in earnest, just as frantic and urgent in its horizontal edition as it was in the vertical.

He feels delightfully heavy on top of her, wonderfully immediate and reachable everywhere, yet even though she'd never felt him this close before, it's somehow still not close enough. The relentless curiosity to know and feel more of him is overwhelming, and she lets her hands drift down his back; urged by some anonymous force and followed by her hectic heartbeat, she lets them slip under his shirt and climb up his back in a series of light touches, exploring, feeling the muscles shift and move under the smooth skin. It does something to him, this tentative little reconnaissance mission of hers - she can tell, because from somewhere deep in his throat a sound escapes she hasn't heard before, and his tongue swirls around hers in a new, hectic rhythm that sends sparks dancing across her skin. Flushed and breathless and past caring, she pulls the shirt up, catching a quick breath as it goes over his head before she drops it on the floor unceremoniously, in a rush to get back to exploring the now wonderfully exposed new territory, smooth and available and glorious to touch.

She trails kisses down his neck, and each one sends a bolt down under his skin, but as the strain travels lower, she shifts a little under him –once, twice, three times – and Jess finds himself quickly entering a new dimension of torment, and however sweet and exquisite, it's torment nonetheless. Struggling for a compromise, he slides on his side, attempting to, however regretfully, put some space between them, but she immediately snuggles closer, still surreptitiously lining craze-inducing kisses along his chest. Within seconds, instinct shuns brain aside and he pulls her closer, running a hand over her leg and reaching up her back, searching for skin under the baggy sweatshirt. There's a tank top under there, but aside from that, there's nothing but soft, gorgeous skin, and once the realization sinks in, he finds her lips again in a rush, nudging her softly onto her back again, determined to explore and hoping she'll let him. She does, and his heart beats drum-rolls in his ears as he traces and cradles soft curves over and over again, savoring the little whimpers the touches induce, always chasing new and louder ones, growing bolder as they grow closer together until the moment he daringly travels down her stomach and, carefully staying on the outer side of the sweatpants, reaches further down with his hand. Instantly, she pushes against it, but this might be instinct and he waits, heart thumping, for her brain do catch up -in a second, it does and she freezes still, eyes opening wide.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks softly, catching his breath, studying her carefully.

"That depends," she breathes, her heart racing.

He raises his eyebrows. "On what?" he chuckles softly.

"On what you're going to do," she replies honestly, slightly worried; he smiles, and the apprehension melts away.

"Just relax," he murmurs and plants a string of kisses down her ear, his hand gently moving; the sparks ignite instantly and she clutches at his hair harder.

"Jess, I don't want us to –"

"We won't," he murmurs in her ear, "I promise."

It's his second promise for the night, and he intends to keep both, although he's aware he might be treading a dangerous edge on the first one, but she just looks and feels and sounds too magnificent to forego this experience. Completely transfixed, he watches and listens and feels, reacting as gentle nudges against his hand and soft whimpers against his mouth direct, taking his time and savoring every second until she gasps and shudders, her face gloriously flushed and glowing in the moonlight. A gigantic grin proves impossible to suppress and he trails his hand over her lazily, utterly and ridiculously happy and certain he could relive the last hour over and over again and never get tired of the experience.

He waits for her eyes to open, itching to see what's written in there, but as the soft blush fades from her cheeks and her breath returns to normal, she suddenly curls up in a ball, and hides her face in his chest; the gesture very obviously implies hiding and avoidance, and anxiety creeps into him, suddenly tainting the exhilaration he reveled in a moment before.

"Hey," he says softly, "are you okay?"

She nods, but she doesn't move and the eyes don't open.

"Okay, so then why do I get this weird vibe that you're wishing you could disappear inside this couch, or something along those lines?" he tries again, confused.

Her cheeks erupt in red again and she shuts her eyes tighter.. "Because I am," she croaks out, grimacing.

"Well, that's not very likely to happen, so, you know, you might as well give it up," he points out, gently pushing hair off her face.

"That's easy for you to say," she mumbles into his chest.

He chuckles softly and bends his head, placing a soft kiss at her temple. "Come on, I'm possibly having the best moment of my life here, and you're ruining it," he murmurs against her ear.

The statement has an unexpected effect and she turns her head slightly, squinting at him. "Really?"

"Really," he chuckles, "so just stop with the weirdness and let me enjoy it."

A tiny smile appears on her face and a ton of bricks unloads from his chest; her smile lingers but the look in her eyes is still uncertain and evasive. He smiles back, aiming to reassure, and cradles her closer. "So, why are you freaking out? You seemed pretty -" he chooses the word carefully "- …happy… a moment ago. Or did I read that wrong?" he asks, trying to sound casual, suddenly mortified he'd misjudged everything horribly.

"No, you didn't, and yes, I was," she says quickly. "It's just… well, I've never done that before," she explains reluctantly. "With anyone else," she adds as an afterthought, correcting herself and blushing furiously again. "So I wigged out a little… afterwards."

It takes a massive effort for Jess not to jump up and dance around like a lunatic at this proclamation, but he manages to settle for a silent salute to Dean for being either completely incompetent or a priest in the making, not really caring for the cause but eternally grateful for the effect. It's a puzzling paradox, really, because if he wasn't the first to do what he just did, it wouldn't have mattered – but somehow, the fact that he was matters beyond description.

"Did you mean what you said, earlier?" she suddenly asks, looking up at him with bright eyes.

"I don't know, I've said a lot of things," he shrugs, fingers tracing the curve of her smile. "Guys tend to do that in these situations," he adds with a smirk.

"Really? What else do guys tend to do that I don't know about?" she chuckles, rolling her eyes.

"Huh, all kinds of devious things, really. Next time you go for the paper, maybe you should bypass the Times and pick up Cosmo or something, I hear they do a pretty in-depth feature on the subject every month," he smirks again.

She absently traces circles on his chest, nodding slightly. "Okay, I'll definitely do that," she promises solemnly, "but in the meantime, did you mean what you said?" She asks again, and peers up at him hesitantly. "About possibly having the best moment of your life?"

"Yeah," he says after a moment, chuckling. "Yeah, I did… How about you?"

She smiles a radiant smile and pulls him closer.

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	21. Of Morals, Snoops and Writers

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who take the time to review :D

* * *

**20. Of Morals, Snoops and Writers**

"So, I've done something despicable," Rory says sullenly, plopping down on the bench next to Lane.

"Okay, that's almost impossible," Lane remarks in disbelief. "You know, sort of like Aretha Frnklin's voice giving out or something."

Rory rolls her eyes. "Fine, something I probably shouldn't have done then," she deadpans dejectedly.

"Huh, only slightly more probable, but I'll allow the possibility," Lane chuckles, rips open a bag of M&Ms and digs for a yellow one. "Okay, so, the specifics of this morally questionable action?"

"How do you know it was morally questionable?" Rory frowns.

"Well, those are the ones that usually make your face screw up like that," Lane declares carelessly, rattling the bag and handing it over. Rory opts for blue.

"It's about Jess," she says after a moment.

"Oh awesome, I was hoping you'd say that," Lane giggles, scooting closer. "Was it a sex thing?" she asks breathlessly, eyes wide open.

"What? No!" Rory shakes her head vehemently, then pauses a second. "What would even qualify as a morally questionable sex thing, provided it's not cheating?" she asks in a confused tone, contemplating the issue.

"Oh right, sorry, I forget you're not burdened with the whole religion-induced guilt," Lane sighs, dramatically. "But if you were, there'd be an endless list of answers to that question," she points out with conviction, then shakes her head. "Okay, never mind that now, back to this highly improbable morally questionable action of yours…"

"Right, okay," Rory nods, backtracking. "Well, I was going through Jess's backpack and -"

"You went through his backpack?" Lane interjects, eyebrows lifting in disbelief.

"Well, it was an accident!" Rory counters defensively.

"Okay, first of all, I'm not judging you, so, you know, take a breath, and secondly – how do you _accidentally_ go through someone's backpack?" Lane wonders, frowning.

Rory sighs. "Would you just let me tell the story?"

"Right, sure, sorry," Lane chuckles, searching for another yellow piece. "I'll just shut up and chew."

"That'd be great," Rory nods, and takes a breath. "Okay, so I had permission to go into the backpack – we were up at the apartment and supposed to watch a movie, but then Luke called Jess down to the diner for something-"

"Aw, he's still running interference, is he?" Lane chuckles incredulously.

"Well yeah, but you know, the intervals are up to almost half an hour now, so it's almost tolerable," Rory informs her, brightening up.

"Wow, he's really slipping," Lane comments, eyebrows raised. "And it's only been, what? Three months?"

"Yeah, I know, it's weird," Rory chuckles, then frowns. "Weren't you supposed to be chewing?" Lane cringes and smiles apologetically. "Anyway, so out he goes, but he tells me to get the movie out of the backpack and start it. So, you know, that's permission, right?"

"Well, to get the movie, yeah," Lane shrugs.

"Okay, so I open the backpack," Rory continues, ignoring the pointed out distinction, "and find the movie – oh, and by the way, the movie? It was 'Mamma Mia', and if you haven't seen that, you should definitely get it, it's hilarious!"

Lane nearly chokes on a handful of yellow M&ms. "_Jess_ rented 'Mamma Mia'?" she blurts out, gasping for air. "Oh my God, that sounds even more impossible than you doing a despicable thing!"

Rory nods, giggling. "I know, but he said he just couldn't miss an ABBA singing James Bond in platforms and sparkly overalls."

"Pierce Brosnan wears platforms?" Lane gapes incredulously.

"Well, not really, not in the movie, but there's a bit at the closing credits that… You know what? Just get the movie," Rory declares, shaking her head.

"Oh I will," Lane nods vigorously, then frowns. "Okay, so the unlikely movie choice aside, what else did you find in there?"

"A notebook," Rory says with a sigh.

"So, like a… school notebook?" Lane lifts her eyebrows, prodding.

"Okay, once again, what would be morally questionable about me looking through his notes from school?" Rory asks incredulously.

"I don't know, you're sometimes weird when it comes to school stuff," Lane shrugs.

"I'm not weird," Rory argues, snatching back the M&Ms.

"Fine, then… peculiar," Lane shrugs off the comment placidly, then gawks at Rory. "Oh my God, was it his diary?"

"Huh, no, not really," Rory shakes her head. "It was more like… well, like a book, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, if the pages were typed instead of handwritten, and the whole thing was inside a hardcover instead of a notebook, I'd definitely call it a book," Rory says in a dull tone.

"Okay, so, did you read it?" Lane asks excitedly.

"Lane, he was gone for maybe 15 minutes," Rory points out exasperatedly. "I mean, I'm a fast reader, but only R2D2 is that fast."

"Okay, but 15 minutes, that must have gotten you, what? 15 pages?" Lane wonders, calculating.

"27," Rory shrugs. "Then he came back so I had to stop."

"So, okay, I'm guessing he didn't catch you at it because I suspect if he had, we'd be having a somewhat different conversation right now," Lane concludes shrewdly.

"I heard him coming up the stairs so I put it back and you know, pretended like nothing happened," Rory confirms.

"Right," Lane nods, frowning. "So, well, was it any good?"

"Yeah, that's just it, it was really great, it was totally original and completely different from anything else I've ever read and it's killing me that I can't tell him that!" Rory says, frustrated.

"Well, you know, maybe you could tell him. I mean, it was an accident, sort of, it's not like you went in there with the intention to snoop. He might be okay with it," Lane offers reasonably.

"Somehow, I seriously doubt that," Rory says miserably. "I mean, it's Jess. He hates talking about himself, and getting him to share stuff is like pulling out nails with a pair of tweezers."

"Okay, so maybe not," Lane cringes.

"Trust me, he would hate this, and besides, if he wanted me to read it, or even know about it, he would have told me." Rory shakes her head sadly. "On some level, I wish I'd never seen the stupid thing."

"Yeah, it's a pickle," Lane nods sympathetically.

"_A pickle_?" Rory can't suppress a chuckle.

"Yeah, okay, _pickle_ is lame and outdated, and I have no idea why I chose the phrase," Lane rolls her eyes, and looks into the bag again. There are no more yellow M&Ms. "But I still think you should just tell him."

"Why?" Rory asks incredulously.

"Because, you're you, and there's no way you can keep this to yourself," Lane shrugs.

"Hey, I can keep a secret," Rory counters with a frown.

"A secret, yeah," Lane nods, "but this is something that you'll think of every time you look at him, and it will fester and fester until it drives you nuts."

"Well, maybe I could somehow get him to tell me without asking directly," Rory shrugs, contemplating.

"Manipulation? No, not your strong suit either," Lane shakes her head. "Unless, you know, you enlist Lorelai's help, she's a natural at it."

"Okay, this conversation is doing wonders for my confidence," Rory rolls her eyes. "I mean, is there even anything _I'm_ good at?"

"Oh yeah," Lane smiles. "Being honest."

"Great," Rory deadpans.

"I know it's sadly under-rated, but it's your best shot," Lane concludes, and rattles the bag, switching to orange pieces.

"So that's it, I should just tell him?" Rory asks, defeated.

"That's what I'm going with," Lane shrugs. "I mean, think about it, what's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know," Rory sighs, "a fight?"

"So, you'll fight. God knows you're both good at it, I can bear witness to that," Lane points out with a chuckle.

Rory rolls her eyes. "That was in another life, this would be like… a couple fight. We haven't had one of those."

"Yeah, but it would also be a couple make-up, eventually," Lane chuckles, "and that might be memorable."

Rory can't really argue with that, so she just nods, smiling, and pulls a handful of M&Ms out of the bag. "Okay, so enough about Jess… Let's go over the Korea extraction plan again, because the D-day is drawing near and you know, preparation is everything," she chuckles.

"Oh great, I thought you'd never ask," Lane nods vigorously, and digs through her bag. "Okay, I have a list here…"

…

In the days that follow, Lane is proven right – every time Rory sees Jess, the notebook and its contents creep into her head. She tosses around the question of to tell or not to tell, and slowly begins to feel like a contemporary incarnation of Hamlet as she spins around in a never-ending circle of pros and cons. The internal debate is regularly topped off with the million-dollar question of why he never mentioned that he actually wrote a book.

_Maybe he didn't_, a possibility presents itself suddenly; _maybe he's still writing it and wants to wait until it's finished_. She likes this theory and it affords her a few days of peace of mind, until she realizes that there's no evidence of that, one way or the other, and the internal debate begins anew. Ignoring Lane's discouraging assessment of her manipulation (in)ability, she tries to steer a few conversations towards the issue indirectly, fishing for some specifics by making general comments on writing; unsurprisingly, it gets her nowhere and she ultimately gives it up, fervently wishing there was a manual somewhere on how to be a devious female.

_Maybe it's about trust, _she thinks sadly; maybe he just doesn't trust her enough to let her see this huge piece of him, because that's what it is, there was a lot of him in those 27 pages she managed to go through. It wasn't exactly an autobiographical thing, but it reflected his thought process very clearly, his voice was very recognizable in those pages, enough for her to instantly know they were written by him and not someone else. _Or maybe he just doesn't care what I'd think_, another chilling perspective arises out of the gloom, twisting her insides in a clammy knot. Somehow, this one seems worst of all, the idea that her opinion doesn't matter to him at all, and she looks over at him, suddenly feeling like she's staring at a stranger, distant and unfamiliar, wondering if she even knows him at all.

"You want to tell me why you look like you just had an embolism?" he smirks, pulling one of his legs up and propping his elbow against it; the other remains hanging off the side of the bridge and she blindly watches it dangle over the water for a moment.

"I want to read your book," she says quietly.

He chuckles. "Which one of the glorious eleven?"

She looks up at him and takes a breath. "Well, the twelfth one, actually," she says simply.

"Well, by my count, that's one more than I can currently offer," he smirks.

"No," she shakes her head, "I'm talking about your book. As in, the book you wrote. In that notebook."

He looks at her blankly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh come one, Jess!" she erupts, irked by the nonchalance. "There's a notebook, blue, squared, in your backpack, with something that bears striking resemblance to a novel written inside! Are you seriously telling me you don't know what I'm referring to?"

"Oh my God," he shakes his head, chuckling. "I totally forgot all about that!"

"You forgot about it?" she gapes at him incredulously. "You forgot you wrote a book? Are you kidding me? How is that even possible?"

"I don't know, I haven't looked at or thought of the thing for almost a year!" he says defensively, caught off guard by the unexpected outburst.

"Excuse me?" she gawks at him. "Over a year? You carry it around in your backpack!"

"Well, I haven't really seen the bottom of that thing in a while either, so God knows what else might be in there," he chuckles.

She shakes her head clear, trying to grapple the issue. "When exactly did you write this?"

"I don't know, last year, the year before, I don't really remember," he frowns, apparently concentrating.

"So, you wrote a book at – what, fifteen?" she asks in disbelief.

"Probably, I didn't keep track of the date," he shrugs. "What's with the third degree, anyway?" he asks, puzzled.

"You wrote a book at fifteen," she reasserts, completely shocked.

"Okay, calling it a book is a little presumptuous," he comments casually, and looks for his cigarettes.

"Oh, really?" she lifts her eyebrows. "Fine then, what do you call it?"

"I don't know, it didn't really need a name before now," he shrugs.

"Well, then trust me –it's a book," she clips with annoyance. "Well, at least if the first 27 pages are any indication."

"Fine, it's a book if that's what you want it to be. I still don't understand why you're making such a big deal about it," he frowns, shaking his head.

"You wrote a book at fifteen," she repeats, enunciating every word.

"Okay, that's getting old," he rolls his eyes, chuckling.

"Sorry," she says sarcastically. "How about – you wrote a really great book, regardless how old you were?"

"You've read 27 pages," he points out with a smirk.

"Yeah well, somehow I suspect the rest is equally great," she declares with certainty. "I don't get it, how can you be so… dismissive about it?"

He shrugs and lights a cigarette. "Because, it's not a big deal, it doesn't really matter."

"Jess, that took a lot of work, and as far as I could see, it came out great, and trust me, it is a big deal," she says exasperatedly.

"It took a few months of scribbling when I had nothing better to do," he corrects her with a smile.

"Okay, well, if it came that easy and turned out that good, then it's an even bigger deal," she shrugs, unfazed.

"It's not that good," he warns again.

"Oh, I beg to differ," she counters quickly, folding her hands.

He laughs. "Well, I kind of doubt you're being very objective."

"Oh, please, don't even try that," she deadpans, "I've read enough books to recognize a really good one when I come across it, regardless of who wrote it."

"Okay, so there's an interesting issue we've overlooked," he smirks. "How did you come across it, exactly?"

"What?" she asks, confused at the sudden shift in subject matter.

"The notebook," he elaborates.

"Oh, right," she nods, suddenly fidgeting. "Well, when I went into your backpack to get Mamma Mia, it sort of… got in the way, so I took it out."

He smirks. "So, you sort of when through my stuff?"

"Hey, you told me to get the movie, it's not like it was my idea to go rummaging through your backpack," she says, aiming to sound aloof.

"The movie, yeah… but I don't remember mentioning anything else," he points out, frowning slightly.

"As I said, it got in the way," she stubbornly sticks to her story.

He laughs. "And miraculously fell in your lap, opening up in the process?"

"No," she throws him a dirty look. "I don't know, I actually thought it was for school, but then it felt unusually thick and used, so that theory fell through swiftly."

"Right… so, basically, you knew it had nothing to do with school before you opened it?" he asks innocently.

She rolls her eyes, giving up. "Fine, I was curious!"

He chuckles. "You mean, you were snooping?"

"I was getting the movie! The rest just sort of… happened," she admits, blushing slightly.

"What if it had been… a diary, or something?" he challenges, hiding a smirk. "That would have been a serious invasion of privacy."

"Yeah well, the universe in which you keep a diary is just highly improbable," she points out with a chuckle.

"It could happen," he shrugs, baiting.

"Sure, and penguins could fly, but neither is likely," she rolls her eyes and hugs her knees, frowning at him.

"You're still a snoop," he chuckles.

"You still wrote a book," she counters, eyebrows raised.

"I scribbled down some random thoughts over a few months," he deadpans.

She shrugs, nonplussed. "Yeah well, in literary criticism, that particular form is known as 'stream of consciousness'."

"Well, I sincerely doubt my consciousness would be of any interest to anyone," he chuckles.

"I want to read it," she declares with conviction.

"You'd read anything," he points out the obvious.

"True, but I wouldn't declare just anything great," she warns solemnly.

"You've read 27 pages, which is hardly a basis for any declarations," he smirks at the frown.

"Okay, that's a fair point," she concedes. "I guess it's entirely possible you totally screwed it up by page 59, or whatever."

"Thank you!" he bows his head dramatically.

She rests her chin on her knees for a moment and stares at the wooden planks, then looks out over the lake, then back at him. "So, will you let me read it?"

He laughs. "You just don't give up, do you?"

"Sorry," she smiles apologetically.

He looks at her, suddenly realizing he really wants to know what she'll think of it. "Fine, you can read it."

"Really?" she asks, surprised.

"You'll be disappointed, but yeah, sure," he shrugs.

She frowns at him, confused. "Why would I be disappointed?"

"Because in your head, you've built it up into some literary masterpiece which, I assure you, it's not," he chuckles. "But still, yeah, go ahead and read it, I'd actually like to know what you make of it."

"Okay, great," she beams at him expectantly; he studies the expression for a moment, uncertain what to make of it.

"What?"

"Well, give it to me," she says simply.

He gapes at her. "Now?"

"Yes, now," she says like it's most natural thing in the world. "Now is a very good time."

"Yes, it is," he smirks, leaning closer, "but not for reading. You can have it when you go home, but for now, I've got wildly different plans."

* * *

_A/N: _

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	22. Of Love, Lust and Literature

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_Okay, so I'm back :)_  
_I can't believe it's been nearly two years since I posted the previous chapter. This seem incredible to me for two reasons: one, this story remains so alive in my head as if I'd written the previous chapter yesterday, and two, people are still reading it. Reason no. two is actually to me the more incredible one, because with no update in such a long time, it takes a lot of digging through Fanfiction to even come across it._

_Anyway, I am not going to bore you with long speeches and infinite excuses for such a long absence, I'll just thank you all for reading and all the reviews and hope you enjoy the rest of the story which should now be coming in much closer intervals :)_

* * *

**21. Of Love, Lust and Literature**

Rory happily loses a night of sleep with her head buried inside the blue notebook. She delves into it with utter abandon, like a child who is given a toy it watched in a store window for months and now it finally has it in its hands and the toy is finally real, beautiful and tangible. She absently ignores Lorelai's calls for dinner and quickly dismisses her mother's questions when she comes into the room. She fails to notice the thunderstorm that passes through Stars Hollow in the night, bringing lightning and thunder and winds that rattle the windowpanes and beat ferocious rain against the glass. She also blatantly ignores the fact that she has school in the morning and keeps turning the pages even as her eyes begin to burn and fill with sand as dawn starts to draw near. But most of all, somehow she quickly forgets that what she is reading has anything to do with Jess at all and finds herself loving the words just for their own sake, because they flow flawlessly and create a world she loses herself in effortlessly, without trying, without even noticing it's happening.

Jess reenters her head only after she flips the final page, digests the last sentence and is faced with the blank piece of paper; in that moment, reality reasserts itself and she faces the first rays of sun that creep into the room. It seems like the world had ceased to exist and as she tries to blink away the sand in her eyes, her mind catches up with reality and she consciously connects Jess to this wonderful journey she had taken. It was he that had taken her there, this world she had explored was one that he has built. This realization strikes with a flourish of wild emotions, but the prevailing one is completely unexpected because in that moment, she suddenly finds herself wanting him with such sheer passion that the feeling drowns out everything else. Her mind instantly veers off into hidden planes that keep records of the way he feels, smells, kisses and touches. Her skin bristles and the overwhelming desire for him suddenly multiplies to infinity; ready to jump out of her skin, she bolts from the bed and nearly runs to the bathroom where she quickly splashes cold water over her face, willing this heat away and waiting for her heart to slow down. She takes a few deep breaths before she faces herself in the mirror, but somehow, she doesn't quite recognize the person that is looking back. There is something new there, a covert craving that she feels she should hide from him, but somehow, she wants him to see it nonetheless.

Footsteps sound over her head and she quickly retreats to the safety of her room and hides under the bed covers, deciding it's safer to feign sleep until the much too insightful eyes of Lorelai are out of the house, certain that she will be as transparent to her mother as if she had the words "sex crazed teen" written all over her forehead in big fat block letters.

This is new, this feeling of pure and basic… lust, she finally dares to name it, hidden under covers, in spite of the ferocious blush the bold use of the word instantly brings to her cheeks. It is not entirely new in its experience, there had been flashes of it before, but those always happened when provoked and he was always there for them in the flesh, with kisses and touches and a whole other array of fantastic incentives. This is new, this intense hunger that came on its own, out of nowhere, unbidden and unexpected, rising out solely of the knowledge he'd created something as amazing as that piece of writing she has just read.

It really is good, this manuscript of his, she decides as she walks to the bus stop half an hour later, having successfully mumbled Lorelai out of the house without exactly having to face her. It is good on its own merit, regardless of the fact it's Jess that had written it. She is somehow very certain she is judging it objectively, regardless of the whole mayhem the experience of reading it induced. It really is a novel in its own right, and it should be read. It would be read, she's certain of that too, if it was available; an image of it as a proper book on a library shelf pops into her head, and she smiles as she looks at it, this novel of his nestled somewhere with all the other works of social misfits and mainstream mockers. The image fades, she returns to reality and finds herself nearly at Luke's, a habitual morning stop for a coffee and a kiss-to-go before she gets on the bus, but on this particular morning, she finds herself stopping, somehow hesitant and afraid to face Jess while that all-consuming desire still wavers on the edge of her mind and she doesn't know if seeing him will propel it back to center-stage. Reluctantly, she changes direction and aims directly for the bus-stop instead.

On this historic occasion, Chilton holds no interest for Miss Gilmore whatsoever. Instead, she spends the day mentally editing The Notebook (every novel needs a title, but since this is the author's privilege, she refers to it as The Notebook). It needs editing because Jess didn't really bother much with following any preconceived structure or plan, so she first spends half a day dividing it into chapters and thinking out their titles, but somehow the material evades all attempts of somehow being ordered. She finally gives up and laughs at herself internally for even trying to fit anything Jess-related into some accepted and pre-existing form. Like him, this brainchild of his stubbornly steers clear of any literary norms or rules, but remains thrilling in spite of its changing nature and fluidity. Or maybe because of it – again, just like him.

At the end of the day, she goes so far in her blatant disregard for school that she actually pulls out The notebook in class and flips through it again, rereading bits and pieces that catch her eye, joyfully rediscovering some gems and finding turns of phrases that she somehow missed or misunderstood on the first go. She feels wildly proud of him for doing this and grateful for letting her experience it; she also feels an incredible urge to wave this unbelievable thing in front of Lorelai's face and shriek _See? I told you so!_, or something else to that general effect. It makes her deliriously happy and proud, this fantastic accomplishment of his, but looking at it again also proves dangerous because the crazy desire for him quickly follows all the other feelings and easily conquers them all in its intensity.

Mercifully, the final bell of the school-day goes off and she hastily deals with the nuisance that is Paris on this particular occasion. She slowly makes her way towards the exit, wondering how to handle this new desire that has sprung into existence, worrying how strongly it will manifest itself when he's around since it is as overwhelming as it is even when he's not. Something's changed inside her in relation to him; it's like she's crossed some invisible line and entered into territory that she's only been vaguely aware of before. With that notebook, some boundaries have fallen and she feels like she couldn't remake them even if she wanted to. And she doesn't, now she wants something else, and it is a desire she feels on a very real level; it now exists in a form of action rather than just reaction. Something that has laid dormant within her has now woken up and this change is lifelong and permanent.

Taking a breath, she sticks her earphones in her ears and sets the mode to shuffle.

_Girl, you'll be a woman, soon…_

She rolls her eyes at the universe and steps into the street.

...

Jess spends the day roaming. The familiar urge to move hits him after a particularly mind-numbing discussion about _The Lord of the Flies _that he witnesses in his English class; a fleeting thought that idiocy might be contagious crosses his mind and he quickly vanishes from school once the bell sounds the merciful end to that particular torture. He makes his way to Hartford, deciding to hole up in his dusty sanctuary of forgotten records and lose himself in a book for the day.

He finds his favorite spot vacant and he's happy to see that; the bearded ZZ-top look-a-like nods as him as he passes by the counter and simply regards him as part of the inventory afterwards. Jess settles on the floor and wonders what time it is, and in the next second, he wonders why he cares. Time never used to be an issue and the idea of wanting to keep track of it is completely alien to him until it hits him that he's not actually here to kill time, but to make it pass more quickly. Epiphany strikes in the next moment when it becomes painfully clear that he is not really here to procrastinate aimlessly, but to wait for a particular moment.

The concept sends a chill down his spine, announcing with stupefying clarity that something has changed. Suddenly, there is a schedule he's keeping, and it's not even his own, it's hers. Priorities have somehow inexplicably shifted and seeing her easily floats on top of that list, and even though this realization brings sheer panic, he knows it's something he's not willing to sacrifice. Reluctantly, he admits to himself she makes him happy, but ultimately this means that being without her would make him miserable. This notion he has a lot more trouble with since it implies she now holds a certain power over him and this is something he's never let anyone have before.

He doesn't really know how or when it happened, exactly; it is something that just came into existence over the last few months, gradually and naturally, the way that spring sneaks in after winter, when it seems like only yesterday the world was grey and bare and the next day, it's bursting in bloom and vivid colors. Scattered bits and pieces of thoughts and feelings have somehow woven together in slow motion and now they form an intricate picture and it shows him clearly how big a part of that picture she is.

The image looms bigger and bigger in his mind; it feels like it's cornering him in this enclosed space and he quickly gets up and takes to the streets again, wandering s aimlessly, but the newly discovered truth follows with determination. He'd let her read that stupid notebook and now he wonders if this was a mistake, he wishes he hadn't done it and hates the fact that it worries him what she will think of it. She's skipped coffee this morning; he'd wondered why and now he's here, waiting, and on so many levels, he despises himself because of that. He despises himself even more for not even really wanting to fight the urge to be here. But most of all, he absolutely loathes himself because he knows none of this will matter at all once he sees her smile, hears her voice… touches her. In some ways, he now feels his body is housing two personalities and they are constantly wrestling for control. Cringing inwardly, he wonders briefly if this is the path less traveled that ultimately leads to the loony bin.

Growing tired of all the inner mess, he finds a park; a bench looks inviting and he settles there. Determined to lay off the soul-searching, he digs a book out of his backpack, lights a cigarette and opens it. Hours pass and even though all the issues he'd grappled with still skirt on the edge of consciousness, the bigger part of his mind disregards them until he reaches a passage that eloquently put them all in perspective.

"_Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could."_

He hears the church bell chime the end to his waiting; smirking, he puts the book back into his backpack and starts for Chilton, in search of proverbial apples to taste.

...

Rory barely makes three and a half steps out of Chilton when she spots him leaning against a lamppost across the street and her plan of using the bus ride to Stars Hollow to try and achieve some order to the chaos that was today quickly evaporates into thin air. As if totally unaware of the anguished knot that forms in the pit of her stomach, her feet instantly change direction towards the spot where he's standing and a radiant smile breaks on her face. _This is completely stupid_, she tell herself sternly; this anxiety that she's feeling is utterly ridiculous, this is the same Jess she's been talking to, laughing with and kissing for months now, there's nothing new or different about him today. _But there's something different about you_, a voice murmurs in her head; she shakes it off and makes the final step.

"You look like you had a rough night," he smirks at her and plants a light kiss against her temple.

"I didn't sleep," she admits with a smile, "but the night was glorious."

"And what did you lose a whole night of sleep over?" he asks with a smirk as he lays his hand around her neck and gently steers her back towards the park.

"You, actually," she answers, still smiling. "I read your book," she adds after his eyebrows lift.

"You should really stop referring to it as a book, you know," he chuckles, "although I guess it's a good sign it managed to keep you up."

They're in the park now and she stops and tugs on his shirt to make him face her. "Jess, I love it," she says in a breath. _I love you_, she suddenly realizes and bites her tongue quickly, afraid the words will somehow tumble out on their own and become real. Her face changes and he looks at her, studying this new expression that dances in her eyes, loaded with meaning that he can't decipher. She looks away quickly, but looks back at him in a moment with a familiar smile in place, and pulls him closer. "I love it," she repeats with conviction, but the tone is somehow grander than the one he would expect her to use for this particular topic.

"Okay, so then you're easily satisfied," he smirks and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"No, actually, I'm not," she shakes her head. The strand escapes again but he ignores it this time and frowns. "Rory…"

"No, I know what you're going to say," she interrupts, placing a finger against his lips with a stern look. He smirks against it and his breath brushes against the tip; her heart skips a beat and she runs the finger across his lips absently and watches his mouth open slightly and his eyes grow dark. It takes an enormous effort of will to bring her mind back on track. "I know what you're going to say," she repeats in a gentler tone. "You're going to say I'm not being objective because it's your writing, but Jess, I promise you, I forgot all about that after the first few pages. I forgot because it was so good on its own, regardless of you, that I didn't put it down until I was finished and I have only done that before with precious few books in my life," she declares breathlessly and looks at him, searching his face to see if he's taking her seriously.

"Okay, well, if The Fountainhead was one of them, I rest my case," he smirks and looks at her with a challenge in his eyes.

"I'm serious, Jess!" she half yells, shaking him by the shirt.

"And violently so, apparently," he shrugs, smiling; her frown deepens and she takes a breath; judging by her face, there's a full-fledged yell coming about and he covers her mouth quickly. "I'm glad you love it," he says simply, and watches her defuse behind his palm. "I love that you love it," he adds gently, as an afterthought; her eyes open wider and that expression he saw earlier returns and he removes his hand, thinking how gloriously that look suits her.

It happens in that moment, that crazy desire she'd wrestled with all day kicks in with full force and she suddenly feels like she'll burst into flames if she doesn't indulge it, regardless of all the other mundane details of the situation that are the concerns of the time, the place and the circumstances. They are all suddenly completely irrelevant, and as she draws closer to him, she is amazed to discover that she's actually moving slowly, without the rush and the urgency that this desire seems to command. She somehow has enough time to notice how his body grows tense when she wraps her arms around it, how it gives in and melts into hers when she draws him in, how his eyes change and his lips part in that delicious, absent manner a moment before they come together with hers. Her eyes close, the world disappears and now the urgency makes its grand entrance, demanding and ruling supreme. She'd kissed him like this before, with this crazy feverish frenzy, but this is the first time she does it mostly for herself, more concerned with taking and much less with giving, trying to gratify some very basic need that had awoken today and declared it's here to stay. She's much too involved with herself in the beginning to take much notice of him, but as moments slip away she suddenly becomes aware there's a difference in him as well. There are sounds escaping deep in his throat that she hasn't heard him make before, his breath comes in gasps that grow shorter and sharper and this somehow feeds this crazy desire of hers even more and she suddenly wants to know just how crazy she can make him, can she do to him what he so easily does to her. It's an evil little experiment, but she undertakes it nonetheless, somehow feeling it's her prerogative; she keeps track of things she does and listens for reactions, then repeats the ones that bring about the most pronounced responses. She quickly learns just how to move and where to touch to hear him gasp or feel him hold on to her tighter, yet somehow, these little proofs of his undoing at her hands make her want him even more. A week ago, this would have made her panic, but today, it just makes her feel glorious, and she reluctantly revels in this power, pushing further and further to see how far it can go and actually wildly disappointed the public place imposes some definite limits to the experience.

She shifts her hips a little, and without any reservations whatsoever, Jess readjusts his scornful attitude towards the bits and pieces of literature that depict romantic experiences that have allegedly made men insane and driven them to make incredibly stupid, illogical or impossible choices in certain situations. In a very short and heated time frame, he learns that this is not only possible, but actually quite probable, and in this particular moment, the war over Helen of Troy becomes something that makes perfect sense and he finds that mobilizing half a continent to arms in order to ensure a repeat of this experience would not only be justified, but absolutely necessary. He'd been with girls before, he was certain he knew his way around this sex-related territory well enough not to get lost in it, but things somehow turn wildly different and much less controllable when there are feelings involved. And feelings are very much involved, that becomes apparent very quickly, because he can't find any other reason to explain himself shooting off on such an incredible tangent of hunger for her. There's something different about today, she's somehow made it entirely about her and he finds this to be such a massive turn-on that it almost makes him completely lose his mind. She shifts again, and by now this sweet torture borders on painful and it has to stop before he forgets himself completely; he slowly slides his hands off her back, holds her by the waist and gently steps away from her and her lips, feeling slightly off balance and dizzy, but determined to do his best not to let it show.

Rory's eyes open and she frowns. "What's wrong?" she asks, stepping after him.

"Nothing," he croaks out, then cringes internally and clears his throat. "Nothing," he repeats, relieved he sounds somewhat less like a dying frog on the second try, and takes another step back, in the general direction of the bench.

"Why are you running away from me?" she asks with half a smile and follows.

He eyes her suspiciously, contemplating the somewhat mocking expression. She reminds him of himself, and that's not a good thing, so he stops. "I'm not," he declares and pushes his hands into his pockets, smirking. "I'm running away from this crazy, unfamiliar creature that's taken over your body and threatened my chastity in a very public place in broad daylight."

She smiles. "Funny, it seemed to me you quite enjoyed that creature," she says, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. "I could swear I felt your admiration… growing," she adds innocently, but can't quite pull off the bold line as she planned and ends up blushing furiously.

He laughs out loud at this, finding it somehow both endearing and sexy at the same time. She looks at him uncertainly and he reaches for her hand and pulls her toward the bench. He sits down and she follows; suddenly feeling very tired, she shifts her position and lays on her back, settling her head in his lap. He twitches, and she frowns up at him. "Sorry," he smiles. "The admiration is still there and may take a while to subside", he says apologetically.

"Okay, I'll try not to make an even bigger issue out of it," she says innocently, and they both burst out laughing after a moment of contemplative silence. Once the giggles subside, Rory closes her eyes and for the first time that day actually understands how very much she wants to sleep. Jess looks at her a moment, then reaches for her hand and laces their fingers together.

"So, back to this creature we mentioned earlier," he says softly, and watches her cheeks color a faint red again. "Was it just passing through or will it make a return appearance?"

"Oh, I think it might be back," she says innocently and smiles.

"Okay, it might be back," he repeats, smirking. "Back as in, once in a blue moon, or you know, back in some sort regular intervals?" he adds, trying to sound aloof and ignore a blood surge that brings about another urge to twitch.

She laughs. "I don't know," she shrugs. "I mean, you all but ran away screaming from the last experience," she points out regretfully.

"Yeah well, that had to do with my prudish nature," he chuckles, "but I would love to encounter it again when there are fewer witnesses around. Or, hopefully, none."

She opens her eyes and looks at him. "I think I could arrange that," she says with a smile.

Jess twitches again.

* * *

_Quote used:_  
_Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum_

* * *

_A/N:_

_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	23. Of Diaries, Ducks and Deals

A/N:

I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**22. Of Diaries, Ducks and Deals**

"Jess…" Rory chuckles, pushing his face away from her neck. "Come on, I'm talking."

"I know, I'm listening", he breathes and aims for her ear instead.

"You're not listening, you're… nuzzling," she points out, jerking her head away.

He pulls her closer. "It helps me concentrate," he declares shamelessly.

She slaps his hands away from under her shirt (again). "God, this is like wrestling with an octopus," she shakes her head, exasperated. "Where do you usually keep those extra three pairs of hands?"

He smirks. "Do you really want to know?"

"Not even a little bit," she rolls her eyes with half a smile and scoots further away on the couch, pulling her shirt down. The smirk widens and he leaps after her again, but she lifts her foot and digs it into his chest.

"Sit! Stay!" she yells playfully, then bursts out laughing at the shocked expression on his face. It melts quickly.

"That's the sexiest thing you've ever said to me," he groans. "Do you have a leash with you or should I run out and find one?"

She laughs louder but pushes him away nonetheless. "I'm serious," she points out, catching her breath. "I want to talk about the book."

"And I want to see your bellybutton," he counters with another smirk.

"Well, you know what they say, ladies first," she shrugs with a smile and pushes at him again until he's sitting at his end of the couch. "Good boy," she chuckles and lowers her foot.

"Are you going to feed me a treat now?" he asks sarcastically.

"No, but if you behave, I might treat you to something special later," she says sweetly.

"Nobody likes a tease, you know," he points out with half a smile.

"Fine, then I promise to treat you to something special later," she smiles a genuine, promising smile and for now, he can live with that.

"So, what about this book that is so effectively ruining my rare private moments with you?" he asks dutifully.

"Well, I was wondering what you plan to do with it," she says expectantly.

"Plan? Do?" He lifts his eyebrows. "Don't you know me at all?"

She swats him over the head gently. "Stop being stupid," she smiles. "Yes, plan, do, et cetera. It deserves to have something done about it."

"Okay fine, how about putting it right back where it came from, once I manage to pry it out of your unrelenting clutches," he suggests. "Although I haven't really made much progress with that, I haven't even laid my eyes on it since you confiscated it."

"You want to just stick it back into that backpack?" she asks, clearly aghast at the idea.

"It was very happy there for a very long time," he shrugs.

She shakes her head, amazed. "Okay, so a definite no on that. Lets' move on to plan B."

"There is no plan B," he smirks.

She frowns. "Why not?"

"Because there's no need for it. There's no need for plan A either, really. There's no need for any plan with a designated alphabet letter, or without one." He shrugs. "Why do plans even have letters attached, anyway?"

"Uhm, to tell them apart? To designate priority?" she offers, then stops abruptly and shakes her head. "Never mind that, I'm not letting you worm your way out of this."

"Oh, so you do know me a little," he smirks.

She rolls her eyes. "Come on, Jess, this is a really good book. It needs some editing, sure, but otherwise, it's publishable material. You should have someone look at it."

He laughs out loud. "You're out of your mind."

"Maybe you could show it to your English teacher," she says hopefully.

He laughs out loud. "I hate my English teacher."

"Okay, some other teacher at school?" she suggests, frowning.

"I hate all my teachers," he shrugs.

"Maybe I could show it to my English teacher," she wonders absently.

"I hate all teachers, yours, mine, anyone's," he declares in a flat tone.

She rolls her eyes. "I think my Grandpa has a friend who's a publisher, maybe he could ask him to take a look," she suggests; Jess opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. "If you say that you hate my Grandpa or his friend the publisher, I swear I'll hit you," she warns menacingly.

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Spanking?" he asks hopefully, half-smirking.

"No, Jess, more like Luke's baseball bat over there," she deadpans, pointing to a wooden club in the corner.

"That's actually signed by some pre-historical hotshot, I suspect Luke would appreciate you ruining it," he warns with a frown.

"Well, when I tell him I needed it to beat some sense into you, I'm pretty sure he'll forgive me," she points out sweetly.

He makes no comment; to call this strange would be an understatement of the century to say the least, and she looks at him quietly for a moment, wondering why he's so stubbornly unmovable on this book issue. If she had written something half as good, she knows she would now be stalking every publisher within reach and spamming any publishing company Google could provide with copies. She scoots closer and runs her hand through his hair; she makes a few lazy circles, then grabs a handful, pulls gently and turns his head, making him face her.

"Why are you being so pig-headed about this?" she asks earnestly, searching his face.

He shrugs. "It's just not that good." She takes a breath, but he cuts her off. "By my standards, it isn't," he says flatly.

This is difficult to argue with and she takes a moment to devise a strategy. "Okay, so what's wrong with it?" she asks after a moment. "By your standards," she adds, clarifying humbly.

He throws her a dirty look but she just lifts her eyebrows, waiting. He wants to be annoyed at her but it's hard to do while she keeps running her fingers in those sweet little circles over his head. He takes a breath and rubs his eyes.

"Rory, this thing that you insist on calling a book came out of me wandering around New York, sitting in various parks, markets, coffee-shops, bars and strip-clubs and just writing down what I saw, what I thought I saw and what I thought about the things I thought I saw, or any other idiotic combination of those two particular verbs. It's not a book. If anything, it's a diary of… misconceptions." He takes another breath, getting ready to continue, but her eyes have lit up like a Christmas tree at the last remark and he forgets himself for a moment.

"That's it," she says enthusiastically, forgetting about the scalp massage and clapping her hands together.

"Did you just clap?" he asks incredulously. "I would have sworn only cartoon characters do that."

She claps again. "No, Jess, but that's it," she squeals in delight, bobbing up and down on the sofa.

"Jesus, I'm dating Daisy Duck," he cringes, scratching his head.

"That's the perfect title," she says excitedly, ignoring the dramatic display. "Diary of misconceptions," she repeats, enunciating and listening to what the words sound like. "I like that, it has an interesting ring to it."

He glares at her, stupefied. "Did you even hear a word I said?"

"Yes, yes, you're dating Daisy Duck," she rattles off inconsequentially, then stops and smiles. "Who is Daisy Duck?"

He shakes his head in disbelief. "Are you serious?" She lifts her eyebrows and waits. "Daisy Duck is Donald Duck's girlfriend," he explains slowly.

She giggles. "I guess that makes you Donald, then," she says and leans in, kissing him lightly.

That's one round for her and he lets her have it, because really, he walked into it with the grace of a pregnant elephant. He even smiles. She leans closer and peers up at him; she looks like a little knot, sitting cross-legged, her elbows propped on her knees and her chin resting in her palm, a delicious tangle of limbs.

"Does it really matter how that book… sorry, a haphazard pile of collected words", she corrects herself quickly, "came to be? It turned out original and interesting, who cares what the process behind that was."

He laughs. "It's only been interesting to you so far," he points out flatly.

"Exactly," she nods, "but that's because so far, I'm the only one who's read it."

"Or because you just can't get enough of me so you just get your dose wherever you can find it," he suggests, smirking.

She shrugs. "Okay, I'll allow that may have had some part in the way I feel about it, but it's a significantly smaller part than you imagine."

"Ouch," he says with a frown.

"Drama queen," she says off-handedly; he laughs and stretches, then shifts around until he's facing her, tangling himself like she has.

"I'm not going to change my mind about this," he tells her evenly. "That thing will go back into the backpack, for the foreseeable future. One day, maybe, possibly, I might fish it out, go through it again, redo it considerably and think about doing something with it." She looks beyond disappointed and he smiles and reaches for her hands. "I'm glad you like it," he says honestly. He opens her hands and runs his thumbs in little circles over her palms. "But it's just not as good as you think. Definitely not good enough to go out into the world and change people, and books that change people are the only kind of books that should be published."

"You can't expect to write your first book and be an instant Hemingway," she says with a smile.

"No, but that's why you don't publish that first book, or second, or third. You publish the one with which you are Hemingway," he smirks.

"Oh, I see," she nods, beaming. "You're scared."

He frowns, then chuckles. "I'm what?"

"Scared," she repeats with absolute certainty.

"Okay, this is clearly Reverse Psychology 101 and I have to say I'm a little insulted that you even thought it might work," he says incredulously. "Give me some credit here, will you?"

"I'm not trying to manipulate you," she rolls her eyes. "I actually have it on really good authority that I suck at that."

"Well, if that previous line was any indication, I would tend to agree with that assessment," he smirks.

"Fine, whatever," she brushes the comment off and shrugs. "I'm just saying that you don't have to get everything perfect the first time around. Some things don't have to be masterpieces to have real value, and sometimes, you can't really be an objective judge of the things you do. Sometimes, someone else is better suited to judge them."

He smiles and makes a show of looking around; she lifts her eyebrows, waiting. "I'm just wondering when the gospel choir is going to jump out of the closet and shout _Amen_," he explains with a smile.

She pulls her hands out of his abruptly and rubs her eyes. "God, sometimes you are such an idiot," she sighs and shakes her head.

"You want me to get that bat for you now?" he asks apologetically. She makes no comment and he can tell he's overdone it with the wisecracks. "Rory, come on," he starts again, then stops abruptly and laughs.

"What's so funny?" she asks suspiciously.

"Nothing," he shakes his head, "except the fact that I just realized this whole discussion is moot." She looks confused and he shrugs. "I mean, there is no why any publisher would ever give that notebook a second glance, so this whole conversation is actually just a gigantic waste of oxygen."

"You don't know that," she says doubtfully.

"Oh, I do," he chuckles.

"How can you possibly know that?" she frowns, folding her hands defensively.

"Because I live in a slightly less pink-colored version of the world than you," he says gently, then shrugs. "Think about it. If you looked at that tattered, barely legible notebook and it wasn't mine, would you have bothered with reading it?" She opens her mouth, but he quickly cuts her off. "Okay, scratch that, you would probably read anything that that fell in your lap, but trust me, most other people wouldn't."

She gapes at him for a moment, wavering, then finally concedes the point. "Okay, fine," she shrugs. "That just means it needs to be retyped."

He laughs. "I'm not doing that," he shakes his head.

"I'll do it," she says matter-of-factly.

"And again, you're out of your mind," he shakes his head exasperatedly.

"Yes, well, maybe. But you should really think about joining me, because the horizon is much wider out here," she points out with a smile.

He looks at her in disbelief. "You just don't give up, do you?"

"Not when I'm this certain, no," she says simply.

"We're talking about hours and hours, even days of work here," he warns, still stupefied.

She shrugs. "I don't care."

He just shakes his head and stares at her, sitting across from him and looking so completely convinced and at peace with herself, and for the first time, he allows a tiny possibility that he's wrong and she's right to enter his mind. It settles somewhere on the edge of consciousness and he can tell it's about to start picking at him with small but deliberate picks. It's somehow unbelievably difficult to internalize this notion that she genuinely believes in him, that she is so very certain that this belief is justified that she'd so easily decided to sacrifice whole days of her time to do something that will accomplish just a vague possibility at best. He'd never known or even imagined someone doing something like that for him. He wouldn't have done as much for himself.

He also suddenly remembers something else – she is not stupid. She is actually vastly intelligent, and he suddenly feels guilty for making her jump through so many hoops in order to reach this point where he actually starts hearing what's she's been trying to say since the beginning of this conversation. He also feels like a royal idiot as he backtracks over everything she'd said and the infinitely patient way in which she'd said it and wonders how he could have let the fact that she probably knows what she's talking about slip so far from his mind. She seems not to have any doubts about taking this huge leap of faith on this writing of his and he suddenly figures out that he owes her something for that. If nothing else, he owes it to her the benefit of the doubt that she might be right.

Taking a deep breath, he stretches his legs and leans back into the armrest. "You're so sure about this?"

She rolls her eyes and leans into hers. "I seriously can't think of yet another way to express that, regardless of the better-than-average vocabulary that I have at my disposal," she says exasperatedly. "But if you like, I could try painting you a picture. You might find that easier to decipher."

"Are you calling me a Neanderthal?" he chuckles, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, you're certainly behaving like one," she shrugs dismissively.

"What does that make you, then?" he challenges, suddenly remembering the Donald Duck scenario.

"Desperate and beyond annoyed," she sighs.

He laughs at the elegant trap evasion and sits back up, then reaches for her legs and untangles them. Gently, he pulls on her calves until she slides down the couch. She's still frowning at him but he chooses to ignore that and crawls up her body until their faces are level. He props himself on his elbows and smiles, pushing her hair away from her face.

"Fine," he says quietly.

She raises her eyebrows. "Fine?"

"Yes, fine," he nods.

She frowns, confused. "Okay, I don't know what we're talking about anymore. Are you saying you're fine with being called a Neanderthal, or that it's fine that I'm desperate and annoyed?"

"Keep going," he chuckles.

She shrugs. "I'm all out, actually."

"I mean fine, as in you win, I'm caving in," he smirks; she opens her mouth in shock and he laughs. "If you're really willing to go so far to retype that whole notebook, then you're clearly seeing something there that I'm completely missing," he explains with a shrug. "And if you manage to find a publisher who actually agrees with you, then I'll admit you were right and I was wrong and we'll see what happens next."

She smiles and sneaks her hands around his neck. "I love winning," she murmurs gently.

"I have one condition," he warns with a smile.

Her eyebrows travel up. "Only one?"

"I'm sure I'll think of more later," he admits.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll milk this for all it's worth and more," she chuckles. "What's the condition?"

"You have to edit," he sighs. "Heavily. Brutally. Think Paris with PMS or something."

"Ouch," she cringes, then smiles, nodding. "Okay, deal." She looks at him a moment, wildly happy. "You won't regret this, you know."

He shrugs. "Maybe I won't," he allows, then smirks. "Okay, can we get back to…what was the word you used? Nuzzling?"

She laughs. "Yes, we can. And then some," she adds playfully and pulls him closer.

* * *

_A/N:_  
_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our reader's minds. They usually make us try harder. They often make us get better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy._  
_Just something to think about :)_


	24. Of Tension, Town Meetings and Towels

A/N:  
I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**I am not entirely sure, but I think this scene might have been inspired by a similar scene I came across in one of the stories I read on here a million years ago. For the life of me, I can't remember if this actually happened or not, so just in case it has and someone recognizes this scene from some other story, please let me know so I can give credit if any is due. Tnx :)**

**UPDATE ON THE ABOVE: Yes, I definitely based this scene on something I've read before :) The story is called "Being Right is Overrated" by kimlockt. It's a wonderful story that I read a long time ago, and this moment stuck in my head clearly enough to basically rewrite it from that memory alone. Thanks to kimlockt for the inspiration and to anyone who hasn't read that story, you should definitely look it up :)**

**Thanks to bdevils for the info :)**

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**24. Of Tension, Town Meetings and Towels**

Within a week, Jess decides that writing that "book" was definitely the biggest mistake of his entire life because its cursed existence effectively robs him of Rory - she suddenly devotes enormous amounts of time to abusing her laptop in an effort to retype, edit and form the damned thing into a shape suitable to meet judgmental publisher eyes. Withdrawal symptoms begin to seriously manifest a week later as spring slowly gives way to summer: school finals approach and studying adds another time-consuming demand on her schedule. He suddenly finds he has precious few stolen hours with her and they somehow seem to get shorter and shorter while his hunger for her somehow exponentially gets harder and harder to satisfy. The fact that this forced separation seems to be just as hard on her as it is on him actually makes matters worse because the short time they spend together makes them both try to make the most of it and this quickly leads to some heavy exploration and heated tumbles on various couches that end much too soon, mercilessly cut short by time constraints or Luke's regular interventions. It's a month from hell, and it leaves him walking around hot and bothered 24/7, averaging at least three cold showers a day and snapping at anything that moves or anyone that dares look his way.

"What?" he growls at Luke belligerently as he catches his glance for the second time in two minutes.

"Nothing," Luke shrugs, "except that you'll scrape off the pattern on that cup if you continue to scrub it any longer. I'm actually surprised it hasn't started wailing."

"You said: wash the dishes. I'm washing," Jess bites back.

"Yeah well, there was coffee in there, not truck-grease," Luke points out helpfully.

Jess rolls his eyes, puts the cup away and shuts off the water. "There, are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Luke says blandly and watches over the newspaper as Jess marches over to his bed, throws himself down and grabs a book. He puts the newspaper down and squints at Jess. "Something bothering you?"

"Oh no, I'm just peachy," Jess declares from behind the book covers.

"You've been bouncing off the walls for weeks," Luke points out the obvious. "You're like a toddler hopped up on sugar."

"Go away, Luke", Jess warns in a tight voice.

Luke throws his hands up in the air. "Gladly," he sighs exasperatedly and leaves the apartment, shaking his head.

Hearing the door close, Jess lets the book drop on his chest and rubs his face vigorously, struggling to evict flashes of various curvy, soft, delicious shapes from his head. He fails miserably and throws the book down on the floor, mournfully deciding it's time for another shower and vowing to burn both that bloody notebook and Chilton to ashes as soon as the next opportunity presents itself.

...

Rory rushes down the street, having just been dropped off at the square by Paris after a prolonged joint study session at the Hartford library which had somehow left her more drained by Paris than by 50 pages on the Civil war that she crammed in her head in the last few hours. Still mentally cataloging all the battles, dates, casualties and political intrigues and therefore somewhat oblivious to her immediate surroundings, she almost runs headlong into Luke who displays unusually swift reaction time and takes a well-measured step to the side.

"Hey, eyes open," he warns good-naturedly, smiling at her.

"Sorry," she smiles back, stopping. "Where are you headed?"

"Town meeting," he nods across the square.

"Town meeting?" she repeats incredulously. "You hate those!"

"Yeah, well," he shrugs, "at the moment, it's lesser of two evils," he adds enigmatically and starts walking again. "See you, Rory."

"Say hi to Mom for me and tell her I'm home, will you?" she calls after him. He nods and waves over his shoulder. She continues on her way.

The diner comes into view. She looks at the apartment windows longingly, but swiftly shakes her head and sternly directs her mind back to Jefferson Davis; however, within two steps Jefferson's face somehow melts into Jess's and she suddenly misses him so much it physically hurts. Her heart skips a beat and her feet change direction on impulse, without any real instruction from her brain, and resolutely take her across the square and into the little alley. The back door is open, as all back doors in Stars Hollow always are; she casts a furtive glance over her shoulder, checking if there are any prying eyes lurking anywhere, but she finds none. Satisfied that the coast is clear, she spares one reluctant thought for the fact she's just blatantly passed untruthful information to Lorelai via Luke, but she shakes it out of her head somehow much to easily and pushes the door open.

The storage room is dark and she chooses to rather feel her way in the general direction of the stairs than turn the light on, worried it may be seen from the outside and she's technically not supposed to be here. It still stupefies her how any rules, regulations and deals are so easy for her to disregard when it comes to Jess, regardless who imposed them. She still sometimes wonders at this entirely selfish part of herself that kicks in so forcefully when this desire to see him arises and it suddenly and so easily becomes the most important thing in the world. She finally feels the banister under her hand; orientation becomes much easier and she creeps up the stairs silently, a vague, mischievous plan forming in her head to make him jump out of his skin when she opens the door. She turns the knob gently and softly steps into the apartment, looking around for him quickly, ready to pounce, but the space is empty. A light is on next to his bed and over the kitchen counter, but there's no Jess anywhere. She turns around, somewhat confused and hugely disappointed, and right on cue, the bathroom door opens and he steps out.

Wet hair. Towel. Skin.

A whole universe of reactions unfolds within a split second, all very primal, very instinctive, very base and as old as time, but the only thought her mind supplies is that the concept of clothes is entirely misplaced and should forever be abandoned if that would make him always walk around like this.

"Hey," he says, eyes wide with surprise.

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Funny, she seems to remember she had a voice, once; she also seems to remember she had the ability to string sentences together, quite long ones even, with brackets if necessary, but at the moment, it seems like the scene in front of her just robbed her of any capabilities aside from staring and wondering incessantly what is behind that towel. For the first time, she actually really wants to know, wants to see the complete picture in the flesh, all of it, the full shape and form of this man or boy or whatever the correct form of the word is. It seems irrelevant at the moment, but finally some sort of delayed reaction kicks in; she suddenly feels week at the knees and leans against the counter behind her, gripping the binder to her chest so hard that her knuckles turn white.

Her eyes are darker than he's ever seen them; this look she's giving him he'll remember forever and his body instantly informs him that this shower he just had was a gigantic waste of time and water. Goosebumps form on his skin that have nothing to do with chill and he watches her look at him in the same way he usually looks at her when she stretches or bends in some particular way that starts fires smoldering under his skin. But he's a guy and that's a regular occurrence. This blazing look of hers is as yet unprecedented.

"I thought you had to study," he offers carefully, with half a smile, half a smirk, unsure which way to go, and starts towards her.

"Don't", she says quietly, raising her hand in a stopping motion. It's barely a breath, but it freezes him in his tracks instantly. There's so much determination in that one word that he stops obediently, watching her over the room and waiting with baited breath to see how much more surreal this situation can get.

She swallows and hugs the binder closer.

"Drop the towel."

His brain stops functioning for a split second, then lurches into overdrive, trying to compensate for the lapse and figure out any alternative interpretation for the sentence that hangs in the air. He's beyond certain something must have escaped him and he rearranges the word order several times over, but draws a blank every time.

"What?" he finally chokes out throatily, so shocked he even forgets to register how decidedly uncool this particular reaction is.

She swallows again. "I want to see."

"See what?" he asks, and wants to kicks himself in the head the second the words escape because the answer is wildly obvious on several levels.

A small smile escapes her. "You," she says softly, and along with the tone, the light in her eyes changes and he knows she's not commanding anymore, she's asking now. There's something incredibly endearing about that and it somehow makes the idea of putting himself on display easier to digest, but even with all his confidence and devil-may-care attitude, it's still not an easy decision. It involves trust, somehow, even though he never would have thought that requirement would apply to him while knowing full well it would be a major issue for her once they reached that point and regardless of several excursions into unknown territory, that point still hovers somewhere far, far away. He can't help feeling that this whole experience is beyond weird and he looks at her again, undecided; she looks him straight in the eyes and he finds so much emotion there that suddenly trust simply stops being an issue.

One slow, measured motion and the towel unceremoniously drops to the floor.

She registers it happened, somewhere in her peripheral vision, but she doesn't take her eyes off his for a long moment, tracing the light that shifted there, understanding it took some form of courage to do what he just did and wondering if she would have found it if it was the other way around. Probably not; she hasn't yet found it even in situations that involved much powerful incentives than him merely asking from 20 feet away.

He stands perfectly still; the silence is absolute and it seems to her the world has somehow stopped altogether and the only thing that moves is her gaze. It slowly starts drifting over him, leaving the familiar territory of his face and continuing down to the less familiar regions of him, some of which she's only known by blind touch before. He's not particularly wide in the shoulders and there are no bulging muscles anywhere, but there is lots of wonderfully defined, lean tension in his arms and chest. The flat stomach shows hints of muscle pattern in the dim light and there is a fine, almost invisible trail of dark hair that starts below his navel and drifts down further; she holds her breath and follows it surreptitiously, almost like she's sneaking a forbidden peak, alone and unobserved.

Jess feels like he's suddenly been tele-ported from a reasonably tempered apartment into a boiler-room of a last-century ocean-crossing steamboat and there are two dozen furnaces burning hot coal within two feet of him in every conceivable direction, but all of that heat is nothing compared to the scorching trail that erupts in the wake of her gaze as it travels over him. It seems to happen excruciatingly slow, this exploration of hers, and the longer it lasts, the harder it gets to reign the reactions such close scrutiny provokes and pretty soon not even mental images of Kirk work their magic anymore. It suddenly gets difficult to breathe and this effect is so astounding and unprecedented that sheer shock over it brings him partially back to his senses for a moment, but the moment lasts for only a breath because she chooses it to move and walk forward, haphazardly discarding the binder on the kitchen table.

She's seen, and immediately, there's a wild urge to touch. It comes as naturally and as easily as breathing and somehow it doesn't surprise her at all, she feels no conflict over it whatsoever; there's just incredible curiosity and fascination that pulls her forward instinctively and she closes the distance between them in a heartbeat. He still hasn't moved, and once she reaches him, there's suddenly a surge of insecurity and she wonders if it's okay to actually do what she wants to do. She tries to find her voice and raises her eyes to his, ready to ask, but for once, his face reads like an open book and there's such intense craving there that she's suddenly beyond certain that, as far as he's concerned, she can do no wrong in this moment. It's a sweet, sweet realization and it brings an enormous sense of wild satisfaction that she somehow wields such unique power over him; it's overwhelming and exhilarating at the same time. With perfect timing, instinct shuns reason aside; she looks at him with a smallest smile and lays her hand on his chest. Watching his eyes darken, she slides her hand down slowly, exploring the shapes and texture with lazy strokes that always drift purposefully lower, fascinated how a tight, tense look takes over his face as her hand travels further and traces the soft hair under his navel. He stands still as a statue up to this moment, but now she feels a tiny shudder under her fingers and clearly hears breath catch in his throat; suddenly his hand moves and catches hers in a grip that's so tight it might be made of steel.

"Are you sure you want to go there?" he asks in a hoarse voice that instantly sends goosebumps rushing down her skin.

"Very," she breathes, her heart suddenly lodged in her throat and all that instinctual confidence gone into thin air. Her legs suddenly feel weak and she leans into his shoulder and lays her left hand over his heart; the rhythm is wild and hectic and it beats like a raging drum under her hand.

"It might get messy," he warns into her hair between breaths; the hot air against her ear sends a shiver down her spine and her heart skips a beat.

"I don't care," she whispers into his neck and plants a kiss over his collarbone; the shudder she felt earlier returns, but she also feels him relax against her and the tight grip on her hand loosens a little. He just holds her wrist gently for a moment, then slowly guides her hand lower and suddenly, there's skin that's softer than anything she ever felt and muscle that's hard as stone. The lost instincts come back as she closes her fingers around it and holds still, growing accustomed to the shape and the size. It somehow feels familiar quickly and she starts moving around it tentatively, brushing lightly with her fingers, exploring further; his breath catches again and she can feel his heart skip into crazier rhythm. It's a delicious power-rush, the feeling that she can do this, that she can make him feel this way, that she can make him as crazy and feverish as he can make her. She enjoys the feeling immensely and quickly goes in search of other such reactions, lining lazy kisses at the base of his neck, listening for gasps and watching for the tell-tale shudders that vibrate through his chest. Sneaking her hand around his neck, she hugs him closer; his right hand folds around her and the left travels to her face and tangles in her hair. He tilts her face up and kisses her with such mind-blowing urgency that she forgets herself for a moment, she forgets about her delicate exploration and just grips tight reflexively, but this elicits such a basic, guttural moan from him that it almost scares her before she deciphers it for what it is and repeats the movement intentionally.

"Move your hand," he gasps against her lips, "move it slowly… then faster."

She does exactly as she's told and Jess staggers back blindly, looking for the support of the wall that he vaguely remembers should be here somewhere, pulling her with him, never releasing her mouth from his. Her hand is warm and gentle, but brings sweet torture at first as she looks for the right angle and the right rhythm. She finds both soon enough and Jess feels himself quickly beginning to come undone. He holds her closer and moves into her hand a few more times; her grip stays tight, universe explodes under his skin and he feels a mountain of tension evaporate into thin air, leaving behind only glorified fulfillment.

She feels him become languid against her; his head drops against the wall and she looks at him breathe deeply, then watches a smile steal across his face as those breaths grow further apart. His eyes stay closed a while longer, but his hand is still in her hair and gently cradles her head, massaging in slow, absent-minded circles. A minute goes by in silent contemplation as she marvels at this new experience she now possesses, mildly surprised at how happy it's made her but beyond fascinated how far it seemed to take him and how utterly unglued he became as it happened. She's never seen him give up control so fully and couldn't really imagine a situation in which he would.

His eyes open and find hers; that unguarded expression that she treasures beyond all others reigns supreme in his face and her heart fills with infinite warmth at the sight.

"Did this really happen, or am I about to wake up to Luke's abysmal excuse for coffee?" he asks, shaking his head clear.

"It happened," she chuckles. "There's irrefutable and very material DNA evidence all over my hand, not to mention the floor," she adds, displaying the hand in question with some twisted measure of pride. The feeling is ridiculous, but it's there.

"Yeah well, I warned you," he shrugs with a smile, then looks around the room for the towel. It's lying on the floor two steps away and he retrieves it quickly and hands it to her. She cleans her hand and hands it back; for a moment he looks uncertain what to do with it, but then wraps it around himself again before he pulls her back into his arms. She folds her hands around his neck and smiles at him, feeling completely relaxed and curiously not at all weirded out like she did after that historic occasion on her living room couch a few weeks ago.

"So, you want to tell me what brought this on?" he asks huskily and the sleeping butterflies obediently spring to life in her stomach.

"Does it matter?" she asks with a small smile.

"Hell, yes," he laughs. "Whatever it was, I need to know so I can repeat it on regular basis."

She laughs out loud and shakes her head. "God, you're such a guy. How about you just keep quiet and count your blessings?"

"Oh, I will," he nods, agreeing. "Later tonight, several times over, as I relive the entire thing in detail," he smirks and then chuckles as a look of disbelief forms on her face. "As you said, I'm a guy," he shrugs unapologetically, but he holds her with infinite tenderness and looks at her almost with reverence and this makes denying him anything next to impossible. "Tell me," he asks again. The husky voice is back and she feels heat rise into her cheeks and hides her face in his chest; it's hard, but soft and hairless and she feels safe there.

"I don't know, I was curious," she shrugs against him. "At first," she adds reluctantly, after a moment of silence.

He smiles into her hair and holds her closer. "And later?" he asks softly.

"Later, it was different," she admits slowly. "Later I was just…", she drifts off in search of a word.

"Turned-on?" he supplies helpfully, smirking widely, and she swats his chest. "Hey, it's an official expression, you'll find it any dictionary," he laughs in protest and leans away in an effort to look at her. Her face is red but she's wearing a funny expression that's half-a-smile, half-a-frown. "Whatever happened to that commanding creature that demanded I strip an hour ago?" he wonders flippantly, and this time she really slaps him on the shoulder, but fights an urge to laugh.

"It seemed to me you were more than happy to accommodate that creature," she points out playfully.

"Yeah well, it scared me," he declares indignantly, then ducks to avoid another slap.

"Oh I see, those were wails of fear then?" she nods to the wall behind him and laughs, lifting her eyebrows.

He suddenly stops laughing and smiles at her, then steps closer and kisses her gently. "Oh yeah, I was scared shitless" he says softly and traces a finger over her lips. "I'd never been so… scared… in my entire life," he says sincerely and smiles again.

She swallows and that strange feeling of pride returns. "I hear it can be cathartic, this fear," she smiles back.

"God, yes," he laughs out loud. "And since my black soul is in dire need of such divine intervention, I pray you'll perform that particular ritual at least twice on a daily basis and three times on Sunday."

She bursts out laughing and hits him again.

* * *

_A/N:_  
_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our readers' mind. They usually make us try harder. They often make us better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy and they're the best way to say thank you._


	25. Of Wanting, Humming and Indigestion

A/N:  
I don't own the characters, I just play with them. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Thanks for reviewing :) It makes all the writing hours worthwhile.

* * *

**25. Of Wants, Humming and Indigestion**

It's a beautiful Saturday morning, the sun is out in a bright blue, cloudless sky and the day calls to be spent outside, but Rory sits at her laptop and ignores it stubbornly, resolutely converting Jess's brainchild into digital form. She's made good progress since she started, and even though she'd vaguely planned to edit simultaneously as she transcribed, she abandoned this strategy in the process because she's found editing as impossible this time around as it was the first time she attempted it. It's the only stipulation he'd made, and somewhere on the edge of consciousness it worries her that it seems so difficult to carry out, but it somehow seems less of a priority in the grand scheme of things and so she sets it aside as a conundrum she'll grapple with later.

The transcription used to be an easy and highly enjoyable process until this morning; it was relaxing and interesting as she discovered nuances and meanings that somehow escaped her on the first read-through. These hidden gems always elated her because she firmly believes that precisely those late discoveries are the defining qualities of great books, the ones that you always come back to and read again, and somehow always find something new within the lines. In this manuscript, there are many, and she treasured each one as she came across it.

Today, however, something's different; she can't really concentrate and finds herself making numerous mistakes and twice as many typos as she used to before. She's as committed to what she's doing as she always was, but her mind is not in it at all, and unfortunately, this type of project requires attention. When attention continuously drifts to mental images that cut her breath short and make her skin bristle, the mistakes pile up quickly and any work quickly turns into an impossible mission.

After shaking her head clear for the third time in an hour, she gives up and indulges in the daydream that's been so persistently invading her mind over and over again ever since she'd come home last night, hidden in her bed and allowed her mind to bring forth that scene that she suspects she'll probably remember forever. She'd fallen asleep with it and dreams took it over to new glorious dimensions where all inhibitions easily fell away and the scene that started it all proved to be just that, a beginning that deliciously unfolded to a glorious, natural close that left an unknown smile on her face.

Waking up, however, proved to be nowhere near as glorious; suddenly she found her body making demands that, although familiar and recognizable, somehow multiplied in intensity and reached levels where they blatantly refused to be ignored. She'd tossed, turned, tried to read, washed her face, gulped down water, revisited the Civil war in her head and still, somehow, the demands persisted and proved impossible not to indulge so she caved in finally around dawn, reliving that dream with light touches and closed eyes, imagining he was there, watching it all with that reverent look on his face.

But that was hours ago and somehow so much easier to face in the darkness than it proves to be in broad daylight while staring at the screen that's full of words that suddenly make no sense. She rubs her eyes, shakes her head and takes a deep breath, but continues to stare ahead mostly blindly. Her eyes drift over the familiar details of her room, the books, the pictures, the posters, until they settle on the cork-board over her desk and roam over all the knick-knacks she has pinned up there over the years – absentmindedly at first, but suddenly she finds herself focusing and her mind instantly clears, hungrily drinking in the wisdom she tacked up there a million years ago, but it still applies and it resolves her current conundrum in a flash.

"_Katie, I wanted to marry you. It was the only thing I ever really wanted. And that's the sin that can't be forgiven—that I hadn't done what I wanted. It feels so dirty and pointless and monstrous, as one feels about insanity, because there's no sense to it, no dignity, nothing but pain—and wasted pain. . . . Katie, why do they always teach us that it's easy and evil to do what we want and that we need discipline to restrain ourselves? It's the hardest thing in the world—to do what we want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage. I mean, what we really want. As I wanted to marry you. Not as I want to sleep with some woman or get drunk or get my name in the papers. Those things—they're not even desires—they're things people do to escape from desires—because it's such a big responsibility, really to want something."_

She suddenly knows herself inside-out and knows what she has to do. It's not an easy and simple thing, but just seeing it clearly brings immeasurable relief anyway. She closes the laptop with determination and sets out to take responsibility for her heart.

…

"What the hell is that noise?" Luke wonders, annoyed, and looks around the diner.

"You should really be more specific," Kirk says, looking up from his plate; Luke glares at him. "Well, we are in a diner, there's food being prepared, dishes being washed, plates being served, people talking…" Kirk continues, then drifts off, faced with another annoyed stare.

"I wasn't talking to you," Luke growls at him and looks around again, still listening.

Kirk clears his throat. "Well, then you should be more specific about who you're talking to. That's why we have names," he mumbles dejectedly.

Luke rolls his eyes. "Shut up and eat your burger," he bites back, dumping a pile of plates in the sink.

"Yes, the burger," Kirk nods. "It's somewhat dry."

Luke leans against the counter and squints at him. "You don't like the burger?"

Kirk swallows. "No, no, it's lovely, a pure gastronomical delight," he stammers and bites into it with a vengeance.

"Good, glad to hear it," Luke smiles icily and reaches for the coffee pot, but stops in mid-motion. "There it is again!" he exclaims and looks around wildly, trying to determine the source. Suddenly, his face pales; he takes two steps to the side and points a finger at Jess. "It's you!"

Jess ignores him and wipes another glass clean.

Luke leans closer. "Are you… humming?!"

Jess looks at him calmly. "You're insane."

"It stopped!" Luke declares, pointing again. "It is you! You're humming! And humming to something that's not a cacophony of drums and psychos abusing guitars, but actually vaguely resembles music."

Jess makes no comment.

Luke turns around. "Kirk!" he calls urgently; Kirk's burger drops back to the plate. "You have no life," Luke ascertains matter-of factly. "What's this music on the radio?" he asks, pointing up at the speakers.

"Um, that would be Shakira," Kirk answers obediently.

"And Shakira is…?" Luke lifts his brows inquisitively.

"Well, in a nutshell, a pop singer from Colombia," Kirk elaborates enthusiastically.

Luke rounds on Jess again, gasping. "You're humming to pop music!"

"I don't hum," Jess informs him, eyes narrowing, but an involuntary smile escapes him.

"She does this unbelievable thing with her hips," Kirk sighs dreamily.

Luke ignores him and gawks at Jess. "Did you just smile?"

Jess reaches for another glass, shuts Luke out of his head and thinks about last night. Another smile escapes.

"There it is again!" Luke points at him vehemently. "You're smiling, you're humming…" his voice drifts off and he scratches his head; a second later, he descends on Jess, squinting menacingly. "You're happy. What the hell did you do?"

"What?" Jess bites back, rudely yanked from his delicious daydream. "Will you back off?"

"You're happy. That can't be good," Luke declares, crossing his hands on his chest. "It usually means someone will barge through that door any minute and read me the riot act on keeping you under control. So, what was it and how much is it going to cost me?"

Jess shakes his head. "You need professional help."

"Maybe, but I doubt I'll be able to afford it once I cover your latest vandalism spree," Luke deadpans. "Spill, what did you pull that's made you so giddy?"

"Giddy? Are you serious? "Jess snorts incredulously. Luke continues glaring and Jess rolls his eyes. "Nothing, I was home all night. Will you lay off with the third degree?"

Luke scratches his head. "Nothing?" Jess spreads his hands. "So you're just…happy, for no apparent reason?" he adds suspiciously.

Jess frowns. "Who said I was happy?"

"The humming was a painfully clear indicator," Luke deadpans.

"I wasn't humming," Jess grits through his teeth and throws in a murderous glance for good measure.

"Kirk?" Luke calls over his shoulder. "You heard him hum, didn't you?"

Kirk looks up. "Uhm…", he starts, then quickly checks himself against two sets of glaring eyes and swallows. "Can I get some fries with this?" he asks weakly. Luke rolls his eyes. Jess smirks.

Luke scratches his head and just looks at him for a moment, then points another accusing finger. "You're happy. It's blatantly obvious."

Jess actually believes this might be true but does his best to look annoyed; Luke squints at him, studying him closely. "Did you see Rory last night?"

Jess make a heroic effort not to twitch even an eyelash and stares at Luke blankly. "I'm leaving," he announces calmly, grabs his jacket and marches off. Luke watches him go and suddenly feels a strange chill run down his spine. He turns back to the counter and finds Kirk standing by his stool, jerking his hips around.

"I wonder how she does it," Kirk wonders, confused, and twists his hips again experimentally.

Luke stares at him for a moment, exasperated, then points to the door. "Get out."

…

Lorelai has chosen this particular day for a historic occasion to cook and Rory can't decide if that's a bad thing or a good thing, considering the fact that she's about to run some major interference with that delicate maneuver. She spares a glance for the pots and pans steaming on the stove as she walks into the kitchen and sits down at the table, trying to decide on a suitable opening line. Nothing comes to mind and she sits quietly, secretly wringing her hands under the table.

Lorelai glances at her over her shoulder. "Wow, you're optimistic," she chuckles, stirring something in one of the pans.

Rory frowns, confused. "Optimistic?"

"Well, there you are, at the table, but I'd say lunch is at least several hours and at least one kitchen fire away," Lorelai shrugs, nodding at the stove.

Rory nods. "Yeah," she says quietly, then clears her throat and wrings her hands again. "Mom?"

"Rory?" Lorelai returns playfully.

"Can we talk?"

Lorelai turns and looks at her inquisitively. "Talk?"

"Yes, with a capital T," Rory sighs, nodding. Lorelai looks at her for a moment, then replaces the lid on one of the pans and turns around.

"Should I be sitting down for this?" she asks somewhat apprehensively.

Rory nods again, this time with more conviction. "I would," she adds, asserting the gesture.

Feeling a touch of serious anxiety coming on, Lorelai rounds the table and settles on a chair across from Rory, carefully watching her face. She looks slightly troubled but also somehow weirdly serene; it's almost a mature expression and it makes Lorelai breathe a little easier somehow.

"Okay, Talk," she invites with a small smile. "With a capital "T"," she adds, lifting her eyebrows.

Rory takes a breath; a good opening line stays evasive. "I think I need to see a doctor," she finally blurts out and watches Lorelai's face pale until it matches the slightly greenish tinge of the kitchen wall behind her.

"What's wrong?" she asks breathlessly as she jumps from her chair and crosses over to Rory's side, reaching for her forehead with a cold hand. "Are you sick?"

"What? No, I'm fine," Rory shakes her head, unprepared for such an urgent display of concern.

Lorelai frowns. "Didn't you just say you needed to see a doctor?" she asks, her tone only slightly less urgent.

Rory shakes her head. "That came out wrong somehow," she says apologetically.

"Okay, good," Lorelai nods, but presses her hand over Rory's forehead nonetheless before she steps back. "Okay, let's replay and have it come out right, shall we?"

Rory takes a breath and studies the table top. "What I meant to say was, I think I need to see your doctor," she rephrases carefully, stressing the possessive only slightly. It doesn't register and Lorelai shakes her head, still confused.

"Rory, we share the doctor," she reasonably points out the obvious.

Rory takes a breath, fights the impulse to crawl under the table and looks up at her mother. "Not this one," she says quietly. "Not yet, anyway."

The distinction registers this time around with painful clarity; Lorelai feels that hint of anxiety quickly erupt in a full-scale panic attack and briefly wonders if she should find a paper bag to breathe into, but at the same time, she's certain that the way she reacts to this statement and all its implications is infinitely important. It's the ultimate test of parenthood, really, and she regretfully foregoes the impulse to wail, lock Rory in her room, grab a knife from the counter and turn Jess into sushi. Instead, she makes a massive effort to school her features to echo the serenity that colors Rory's face and leans against the counter behind her, refraining to a soft "oh" for initial reaction.

"Oh?" Rory repeats, her eyebrows lifting. "That's it?" she adds incredulously.

"I'm digesting," Lorelai returns, rubbing her forehead.

"Right," Rory nods and returns to the table top. It's less than fascinating; she gets tired of looking at it quickly and redirects her gaze to Lorelai. "So, how's it going?" she ventures in a weak voice, half-expecting this weird composure Lorelai's exhibiting to crack at any moment and slip into a much more likely meltdown.

"Not bad, actually," Lorelai says, sounding surprised. "I think I'm ready to sit," she adds after a moment and returns to the chair she abandoned a moment ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed in those few minutes and in it she watched this almost-woman across the table sprout from diapers into adolescence in fast-forward, wondering where all the time in between had gone.

"Want me to get you some water?" Rory offers carefully, then rethinks the question. "Or, you know, a digestive?"

"I'm good," Lorelai waves the offer off, then chuckles. "As unbelievable as this sounds, I think you managed to pick the only opening for this conversation that has actually managed to make me feel relieved when I figured out what you were talking about," she says with a smile. "I would have expected that to be completely impossible, so, you know, kudos for that."

Rory shrugs. "I wish I could say I planned that," she smiles back.

Lorelai looks at her a moment, then decides it's time to face the music. "So, the doctor," she reaffirms.

"Yeah," Rory nods, determined not to blush.

Lorelai nods back in contemplation and Rory spares a moment to notice the sheer amount of nodding that happened in this conversation, which is beyond strange, since they haven't agreed on anything and she doesn't really expect them to.

"Is this doctor thing something in the better-safe-than-sorry area or, you know… better-late-than-never area?" Lorelai asks, careful to keep out any hint of accusation out of her voice; there's significant relief when Rory's cheeks erupt in red, very clearly answering her question long before Rory finds her voice. "So, better-safe-than-sorry, that's great," she continues quickly and even manages a smile.

Rory can't help laughing; Lorelai looks confused. "Sorry," Rory shrugs. "I just didn't expect you to refer to anything involving this particular subject as "great"," she explains with a smile.

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us," Lorelai sighs weakly and rubs her eyes again, trying to think of a way to ease into this frightening territory, but that doesn't seem to be one; the search is exhausting and seems futile, so she gives up on the gentle terminology and settles on tone instead. "You want to sleep with Jess?" she asks softly, carefully studying her daughter's face.

The words are out and somehow they don't sound as big as Rory expected them to, but that ultimately doesn't make them any less true; it just makes them more real somehow. They float over the kitchen table and seem almost tangible, and she's so taken with them that she nearly misses the fact that Lorelai actually managed to get them out without choking on them. Once she figures that out, Rory looks at her mother with unrestrained awe, but it somehow multiplies when she recognizes that there's a new incarnation of Lorelai sitting across from her; it's not just her mother, but also a friend, and this conversation somehow becomes easier.

"I'm thinking about it," she admits carefully, and takes a breath. "A lot," she adds reluctantly and steals a glance at Lorelai's face. There's no grimace there and she breathes easier.

"You're sure?" Lorelai asks, grateful for the honesty.

Rory looks at her. "Were you?" she asks back curiously, and Lorelai can't help a smile. "Good point," she concedes with a sigh.

Rory shrugs. "I'd say I'm as sure as I can be," she says simply and watches Lorelai nod again; there seems to be some sort of agreement in this nod and Rory holds it dear, thinking that in general, this conversation is somehow proving to be so much easier than she would have ever expected it to be. She feels weirdly comfortable in it and grateful beyond description to Lorelai for stepping out of the mother and into a friend so gracefully. She ponders this transformation for a while and it suddenly dawns on her there are answers to be gained here that she's not likely to find anywhere else.

"Is it complicated?" she blurts out suddenly, in a rush to get them. "Sex," she adds in the face of a slightly confused expression Lorelai displays, wanting to know and determined to ignore the blush she feels creeping up her cheeks.

Lorelai takes a moment to think about this; Rory feels her heart sink, thinking it definitely can't be very straight-forward if the answer needs that much contemplation.

"Sometimes," Lorelai says finally, "it can be complicated. It can also be wonderful, good, bad, meaningful and meaningless. It all depends on the people involved and their motivations." She shrugs. "There's no easy answer," she adds apologetically.

Rory nods, thinking she didn't really phrase the question correctly, and strains to find a better-suited word. "Okay, but is it complicated... technically?"

Even though she's half mortified by this conversation and its implications but does her best to hide it, Lorelai almost fails to suppress a laugh at this, thinking there's such a very Rory thought process behind that question. She curbs the impulse somehow and shakes her head. "No, not technically," she smiles. "When you get to that point, a lot of instincts kick in and things just sort of unfold…naturally", she adds, suddenly stupefied that's she actually aiming to reassure and briefly wonders if she's lost her mind entirely. She panics again, suddenly second-guessing herself, wondering if she's handled this all wrong, worried if she might have nudged when she should have pulled back by teeth and nails if necessary.

"Does it hurt?"

Rory's voice invades the inner struggle and Lorelai feels the panic subsiding as quickly as it arose. There's a hint of fear in the question and she remembers that fear vividly. She also remembers how Emily's pulling by teeth and nails proved completely ineffective and misplaced and she's suddenly sure this honest approach is better, healthier and more rewarding because she knows from experience that if she'd made a fight over this, she would have ultimately lost. If there's real desire, there would be no way to curb it regardless of what she said or did.

She smiles. "It's different for everyone," she says gently and for the first time since they started talking, she reaches for Rory, tucking her hair behind her ear. "But yeah, usually it hurts, in the beginning. But also, usually the pain is worthwhile later."

A disturbing sizzling sound comes from the stove and they both jump from their chairs in perfect unison, scrambling toward the pan that emits it, partially hidden by the black smoke that sneaks out from under the lid and looks decidedly dangerous. Having had abundant experience with similar situations after previous unfortunate cooking debacles, a well-rehearsed drill kicks in automatically – Rory opens the window, then rushes to the sink as Lorelai grabs the pan, throws it out and ducks out of the way as Rory launches a pitcher of water after it. There's a soft thud as the pan hits the lawn, then more sizzling as the water lands on top of it; after a moment, the sizzling subsides and they dare to come closer and look at the smoldering pile on the grass.

"So, burgers?" Rory lifts her eyebrows, setting the pitcher on the counter.

"Oh yeah," Lorelai nods meekly, swearing off cooking for the foreseeable future.

* * *

_Quote used: Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead_

* * *

_A/N:_  
_All writers love reviews, good or bad. They are precious insights into our readers' mind. They usually make us try harder. They often make us better at what we do. They always motivate us to keep going. They show us what we've done well, what we've done badly and what we could have done differently. Ultimately, they make us happy and they're the best way to say thank you._


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